


Being human

by Heidigard



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Cancer, Changing POV, Depression, Dying Castiel (Supernatural), Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Health Issues, Post Episode s07e01, Post Season 6, Terminal Illnesses, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:22:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 36,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24999034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heidigard/pseuds/Heidigard
Summary: Fate has a cruel punishment in store for the ex-angel who dared to declare himself God. But Castiel finds solace in the apparent certainty that his Father does seem to care, after all. Dean, Sam and Bobby, however, refuse to let their friend go without putting up a fight, and take up battling an old enemy in a new, unfamiliar guise: Will they manage to find closure when death knocks on their door again?Set a few months after the events of Season 6. After losing his god-like powers, Castiel is now fully human.
Relationships: Castiel & Bobby Singer, Castiel & Dean Winchester, Castiel & Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Castiel & Sam Winchester
Comments: 3
Kudos: 19





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this story right after the ending of Season 6 and finished it just before s07e02 aired. I assumed that Castiel, after opening the doors to Purgatory and attaining God-like powers in a misguided attempt to save the world, would not only loose those powers again fairly quickly, but end up fully human in the process, with no angel grace left in him.  
> Also, Sam is still recovering from his stint in Hell, struggling with the broken wall separating him from his memories. A lot of dark stuff, really.
> 
> Please note that this story is 9 years old. Therefore, it represents the characters at the end of Season 6/beginning of Season 7 (I know the boys have come much further in the years to follow), and it does not take into account any events happening in later seasons. Any parallels would be purely coincidental.
> 
> I also apologize for the constantly changing POVs, the disjointed writing and the episodic feel. Unless that's what you enjoy reading, of course. In that case: have fun with all those little scenes :)

###  Chapter 1 - Prologue

It starts not too long after Castiel has come back from his little rendezvous with the souls of Purgatory which left him powerless and human, but most importantly, himself again. Dean and Sam welcome him back with open arms, miraculously forgiving him for the unforgivable.

Dean is grateful that Cas survived his brush with godhood. He shudders to think what would have happened if all their issues had been left to fester unresolved, if the broken trust between them had never been rebuilt. Yet he would have thought that being finally, irrevocably human would alter Cas in fundamental ways. In reality, Cas hasn’t changed one bit. Sometimes, they have to remind him that, for a human, he is being reckless. In the first weeks of his new existence, he had tended to forget that he wasn’t self-healing and close to invincible any more. However, by now, they have come to find that, though still behaving oddly at times and being as annoying as ever, Cas has adapted fairly well.

Things could be so good. And for a time, indeed, they are.

It’s just one of those mornings when Cas is out for coffee, and Dean calls to remind him not to forget the pie. Nothing unusual at all. “…And make it cherry this time. If I see another apple pie, I worry it could put me off for quite a while, and that would be a shame.”

Dean sounds so serious about something as trivial as a concoction of flour, sugar and fruits. Castiel can’t help but smile and wonder how on earth it is possible that Dean could have gone through so much and still retain this childish innocence. “Do not concern yourself, Dean. I will remember.”

Dean starts saying something else but it goes unheard because suddenly, out of nowhere, Cas doubles over, clutching his cramping stomach. The phone slips clattering onto the sidewalk. He retches and shockingly, inconceivably there is blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth.

He looks at the red stains on his tan coat sleeve after he wipes it off, brows drawn together in utter confusion. How can he be suddenly bleeding and in pain when he was not attacked or wounded, has indeed been talking quietly on the phone just a moment ago?

The pain subsides just as quickly as it came and he feels completely fine after straightening up and spitting out the blood clinging to his teeth. Maybe this is normal for humans? Jimmy had had memories of this happening to him a few times before. He flexes his fingers, mystified. No, there is nothing wrong with him that he can see or feel.

“Cas?” Dean’s voice on the phone. Oh. Right. They had been talking. Cas picks up the device and lifts it to his mouth again. “I am fine. I just dropped the phone. What were you saying?”

And just like that, the incident is forgotten.

~.~.~.~.

Some weeks later, Cas is at a diner with the brothers, laughing at a joke Sam just told and enjoying the simple pleasures of human life, like the excellent pizza on his plate or the bitter brew called ‘beer’ that Dean loves so much.

This time, there is a warning twinge of his stomach that would wipe the grin right off his face if he weren’t trying hard not to show his sudden distress. His smile turns brittle, though, and he excuses himself, barely making it to the restroom in time.

He throws up everything he has eaten that night, and there is blood mixed in with the vomit, but not much. Maybe his stomach is just irritated. It wouldn’t be the first time human food caused him discomfort.

He decides to ignore it, rinsing his mouth with tap water and watching his meal wash down the toilet. He is already smiling again when he rejoins the brothers, and any trace of concern they might have had is eradicated instantly.

~.~.~.

This is not where things stop, though. Cas wakes up with a queasy feeling in his stomach more and more often, and the bouts of painful spasms become harder to ignore, to hide. It slowly dawns on Cas that this might not be normal, after all, that this could be a cause for concern.

He doesn’t know when it happened, but at some point he must have decided to conceal what is going on. Now he feels uncomfortable deceiving his friends, but it is hard to stop himself.

He learns to read the signs and ignore the looks he sometimes gets from Sam. Dean seems mercifully oblivious until one day, when Cas has an uncomfortable encounter with the sharp claws of a harpy and they have to bare his chest to stitch up the wound.

When the shirt falls open to reveal a long, deep cut along his ribs, Dean draws in a hissing breath through his teeth.

“Dude, what is this?” He looks accusingly at Cas.

“That is where the -“ But Dean cuts across him. “Not the gash. This.” And to Castiel’s shock, Dean extends a hand and runs his finger over the ridges of Cas’s ribs, clearly visible under his white skin. Cas flinches. The touch feels odd, warm against his clammy flesh, tissue rubbing over thinly-padded bones.

It takes him a moment to gather himself and compose an irritated reply that he hopes will forestall further questions. “If my body repulses you, I will be happy to remove myself from your presence,” he says haughtily.

Now, Sam has noticed the situation, too, coming over and standing beside Dean, but his face is not as puzzled as it should be.

“I don’t think Cas has been eating right,” he informs Dean calmly.

All he gets is a ‘huh’-expression from his brother, but Cas has gone suspiciously still beneath Dean’s hand and has paled another shade or two, if that is at all possible. Sam throws him an apologetic look, half concern, half you-should-have-seen-this-coming.

“What do you mean?”

Sam is not surprised Dean didn’t notice, so he explains. “I guess Cas has been feeling sick a lot lately,” he says, “Isn’t that right, Cas?” Hazel eyes settle on Cas, and he doesn’t know what to answer. “I… I am fine. Can you _please_ just attend to my injury?” he begs, turning to Dean, looking for help. But he gets no support there.

“How long has this been going on?” Dean sounds angry, maybe because he feels left out.

Sam hesitates, leaving a pause for Cas to jump in. When it becomes apparent that their ex-angel will not be forthcoming, Sam sighs and answers for him. “A few weeks. I noticed him taking trips to the bathroom a lot, and his face is often wet when he comes out, but not his hairline.” Trust Sam to be so damn observant, but Cas doesn’t take the time to correct him on a minor detail: it has rather been ‘months’ instead of ‘weeks’.

Dean just stares. “You’re not pregnant, are you?” he asks eventually. “Please tell me this isn’t morning sickness because angel vessels have some twisted procreation thing going on.”

Cas looks back calmly because this question, at least, he can answer, his voice taking on his usual grave tone “No, Dean. Angels do not get pregnant.”

Dean huffs out a laugh, feeling stupid for even asking. “Well, good. I was already beginning to worry we’d have more than one baby on our hands soon.”

Cas just scowls at him, fighting the bizarre urge to stick out his tongue, which would not be at all helpful.

Sam drags them back on topic. “Seriously, dude, now that you’re human, you have be careful to eat regular meals, and if you have a sensitive stomach, you need to make sure to get food that will stay down. You can’t live on air and light any more. You’re as skinny as an anorexic 15-year-old.”

Dean nods and nudges Sam roughly in the ribs with his elbow. “Sam here would now, being the girl in the room.” He winks at Cas and it looks like he’s gotten off easy.

“I will attempt to take up more sustenance.” He promises solemnly and that’s it. They don’t pry any further, though Sam still looks vaguely concerned. Dean stitches up the cut in his side, even though the bleeding has already slowed considerably.

~.~.~.

For a few more weeks, things are fine, though Sam occasionally starts to say something that could turn the conversation into dangerous waters just before he breaks off, and Dean takes it upon himself to order extra large portions of everything for Cas and making sure he eats them. He doesn’t know that more often than not Castiel’s stomach can’t handle the big amounts of food he forces himself to consume to keep their minds at ease. He makes a point of not hastening to the bathroom when Dean is around, swallowing down the acid.

They manage to get rid of two ghosts and a banshee in just eleven days, and the high spirits conceal the fact that Castiel’s face is slowly but steadily getting thinner, his cheeks hollowing out like somebody is carving his flesh away from the inside. Sometimes, Dean throws him a look that says he notices but then clearly tells himself it’s nothing. It’s the light, the lack of sleep, the dirt on Cas’ cheeks from where they dug up a grave. Everything is alright.

Until it’s not.

.~.~.~.

They have checked into a small town the evening before where they are searching for the cause of yet another series of mysterious disappearances. Sam suspects another Arachné, but the other two are not so sure. So they do research, like always, ensconced in their motel room and trying to be inconspicuous because, really, how weird are three guys travelling together like that and sharing a room?

It is strange, so strange, that Cas is the oldest, both in spirit and in body, and yet like the child in their little triangle. He knows Dean feels protective of him in a strangely paternal sort of way; and Sam is a born nurturer. All three of them car for each other, and where’s the weirdness in that? Some people just don’t understand.

After a day of research, Dean is already kicking back in front of the TV while Sam keeps hacking away at the keys of his laptop and Cas is sitting on the sofa, trying hard to keep his dinner down.

Lately, there has been something like ground coffee mixed in with his stomach content, and he is absolutely 100% sure he never ate anything to explain it. He also has no desire to see it brought up again, so to say, so he swallows convulsively against his cramping oesophagus, feeling weak and dizzy.

He sways slightly, and Dean glances over from where he’s watching the screen, whipping his head around in Cas’ direction a second later. “Dude, you okay?” There’s alarm in his voice that brings Sam to their side in a moment.

Dean’s hand is suddenly firmly clasped around Cas’ forearm. This is when Cas discovers he can’t speak because if he opens his mouth, he is certain to throw up all over their shoes.

He looks up at them, feeling trapped, hoping they’ll leave him alone, knowing they won’t. Then there is a rushing in his ears and he wonders if there are angels descending around them, wings churning up the air, before everything is swallowed by a blinding, searing white light.

Team Free Will by Yesi-v224


	2. Hospital

**Chapter 2 - Hospital**

He wakes up disorientated. Sam is there in an instant.

“Easy, Cas.” He places a big hand firmly on his shoulder to keep him down when Cas tries to sit up. “We’re at the hospital. You gave us quite a scare, buddy. Having a seizure just like that and spewing blood all over yourself. You inhaled some of it, too.”

Cas blinks up at him, confused.

Sam’s face softens. “It’s okay. Just relax. Everything’s gonna be okay.”

Castiel believes him and obediently closes his eyes. When he opens them again, Dean is there instead and it’s evening outside. He feels sore all over, like he has taken a beating, and his mouth tastes vile. His head isn’t much better.

“Dean,” he rasps.

Green eyes settle on him in an instant, both alarmed and relieved. “I’m here. Do you need anything?” Dean is strangely timid and that disturbs Cas.

“How long…” He doesn’t have to finish the question.

“Only since last night.” Oh. Good. So him being in a coma or something is not why Dean seems so worried.

As if he’s read his mind, Dean blurts out. “Dude, don’t ever do that again, okay? The doctors say you were lucky to wake up in such good shape from all the blood that got into your lungs.” That’s not the whole truth, Cas sense, but he is too weak to ask, anyway.

In that moment, a doctor enters the room, greeting him warmly and turning to send a protesting Dean to wait outside. He stays adamant about it, so Dean locks eyes with Cas, asserting if it’s okay to leave him, and exits the room upon his nod. Cas can see that he stays right outside the door, though, his shape visible through the opaque viewing window, and for that he’s infinitely grateful as he turns his attention on the medic.

“How do you feel, Mr. Novak?”

“Reasonably well, considering I am currently in a hospital bed.” Cas tries for a polite, neutral tone. He hasn’t yet fully acclimatised himself to the situation and thinks playing for time is the best thing to do.

“That’s good,” the doctor replies.

Cas swallows thickly and there’s a cup of water in his hand a moment later. He sits up a little and takes a grateful sip to moisten his throat. “Why did you have to send my friend outside to ask this question?”

The atmosphere turns serious. The other man sighs, pushing a hand through his hair much like Sam does when he feels edgy. “Because I have bad news. Mind if I sit?” He indicates the edge of the bed and Cas nods. He wonders why the chair is not good enough for this.

The doctor places a gentle hand on his shin under the blanket, looking down on it, then up to catch Cas’ eyes. “You were brought here with severe blood loss due to excessive bleeding in your stomach. Also, you had a seizure causing you to almost choke on your own blood and vomit. You understand that we saw ourselves obliged to look into the matter… Mr. Novak, there is no gentle way to say this.” He pauses. Cas’ insides are suddenly cold with anticipation. “So I’ll be straight with you. I am very sorry to have to inform you that you have stage four stomach cancer.”

Cas just blinks at him.

What?

Seriously, what?

He knows what cancer is, in theory, and that it’s usually not good. People die from it, though he doesn’t feel like it could ever be of concern to _him_. On the contrary: he feels rather detached. And confused. Is this why the doctor chose to sit close to him: because people break down over such news? He doesn’t feel like he’s breaking down. Actually, he feels fine now. A little dizzy, but okay. How can he be sick if he feels healthy?

His spiralling thoughts are pulled back to the present by a voice. The doctor is still talking. “I’m afraid the progressed state of your illness leaves us with very little options. We did several tests while you were unconscious and discovered that the main tumour is growing very fast. It has already metastasized to other organs, mainly your lungs, liver and brain, which is why you had the seizure that brought you here.”

Cas nods mutely.

The other man squeezes his knee in sympathy. “I really am sorry.” He says quietly, “but the odds are looking very bad.”

Castile is still dazed. He knows he should be asking questions, or railing at the doctor, or sobbing into his hands because that’s what people do, what _humans_ do. He does neither, just stares as the doctor gives him time to absorb the information.

A pounding on the door makes them both jump. “Are you done yet? I want to sit down again.” It’s Dean.

The doctor raises his voice a little to answer. “Just a moment. And there are chairs down the hall.”

Dean quiets but doesn’t leave as the lack of retreating footsteps indicates, and somehow Cas is gratefully for that, for his presence just on the other side of the door.

“What does this mean?” He turns back to the doctor. Maybe he has gotten this all wrong. _Hopefully_ he has gotten it wrong.

“It means… a month. Maybe two.”

Huh? That doesn’t make sense. “A month… of staying here?”

The doctor shakes his head. “There are other facilities better equipped for your needs.”

Somehow, Cas has the feeling he missed something. Something big. Important. “Or you could go to a care home. I can give you addresses. Homecare is also an option. Your… friends seem like they care very much about you.”

Cas huffs a half-laugh. “Yes, they do. And I am certain they will be happy to care for me until I get better.”

There is an uncomfortable silence and the doctor bites his lip. It looks like he didn’t expect to have to explain the next point out loud, like he is stealing himself. “Mr. Novak, what I am trying to tell you is that you will not get better.” He gives Cas a meaningful look and suddenly, he understands.

“Oh.” Cas says, such a meaningless human sound but it conveys so much. “Oh, um… I expect I ought to thank you for clarifying this for me.” Cas doesn’t understand why he suddenly feels like he is flying on autopilot. It doesn’t occur to him until much later that this probably is what shock feels like to humans.

Right now, he continues to listen to the other man speaking, out of politeness if nothing else. “There are options. The tumour is rather aggressive, but if you like we can try a round of radiation therapy and see how it reacts. It might give you a little more time. A few more weeks. Maybe months. I wouldn’t recommend chemotherapy in your case. You are already crucially underweighted. We could try to operate on the main tumour but it would do little good with the metastases spread throughout your body already and in your weakened state the operation would probably be fatal. The last option would be a regular schedule of pain medication. Palliative care. I won’t lie to you. Your chances of beating this are slim.”

Another pause ensues. There’s an uncomfortable constricting feeling spreading through Cas’ chest that he can’t explain. He concentrates on breathing deeply, puzzled by his own nervousness. “I… I need to think.”

The doctor nods, looking sympathetic. “Take your time. If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to ask.” He gives Castiel’s leg another light squeeze and stands to leave.

.~.~.~.

„So, what’s the verdict?“ Dean asks when he is allowed back into the room, hands in his pockets and a studied expression of mild curiosity on his face. His posture, however, is tense. “They did an awful lot of tests on you while you were out. There better be some results to show for that.”

Sam is following closely behind his brother, two coffees in hand. He smiles when he notices Cas sitting upright in bed.

Cas sees no point in lying to them. He just looks at the brothers with what he hopes is his usual neutral face and relays his diagnosis to them in his default level tone: “The doctor informed me that I have stage four stomach cancer.”

A coffee cup sloshes brown liquid onto the floor as Sam’s hand forgets to grip it tight enough.

“What?” Dean looks like he believes he didn’t hear him right.

Sam has gone pale under his untidy mop of hair.

Cas is puzzled that Dean’s hearing is so bad. “I said-“

“I know what you said,” Dean snaps in a hard voice, taking a deep breath and rubbing a hand over his chin. “How is that even possible? I thought angels didn’t get sick.”

“I am not an angel anymore,” Cas reminds him gently.

“But it is treatable, right?” Dean sounds insistent, like giving him the wrong answer would not be a good idea for the messenger.

“Dean, it’s stage four.” Sam says quietly, like that should explain everything.

“The doctor said that my chances of survival are very slim,” Cas adds. He knows it’s not what Dean wants to hear but there is nothing else he can say.

“So, what now?” Sam tries – and fails - to sound nonchalant, like this is just another difficult case they have to take step by step.

Castiel turns to him. “From what I understand, it is and excruciatingly painful way to die”.

Dean jerks like he has been electrocuted. “Jeez, Cas! No beating around the bush with you here, huh?” He sounds as shaken as Sam looks.

Cas fixes him with a stare. “I do not see any benefit in concealing any facts from you.”

A sudden look of comprehension dawns on Dean’s face. “Wait. Stomach cancer. Isn’t that what Zach landed me with that one time?”

Cas nods. “More or less, yes.”

Dean’s face falls. “Oh man! I remember the blood-vomiting and the pain… How - Have you been _hiding_ all this? For how long?”

Cas can practically see the guilt blossoming in Dean’s chest, spreading like a black ink stain across his flannel shirt. He’s blaming himself for not paying enough attention to him – again - and Cas doesn’t want him to start down that road. He owes him an honest answer. “I do not remember the precise moment. I started bringing up food and occasionally blood about four months ago. I did not think it was of any significance. I am not used to human food, after all. Also, Jimmy had memories of this happening before. Consequently I did not think the occasional stomach cramp was that unusual. And…” He trails off, aware that he is rambling.

The distress in the brothers’ faces is painful to watch and suddenly Cas feels guilty for not telling them about his problems sooner. Maybe this could all have been avoided.

“Four months?!” Dean sounds incredulous.

“Are you in pain now?” Sam asks in a gentle voice that suggests the mere thought is a horror to him.

“No. I feel completely fine.” But he isn’t fine, never will be again if they can believe the doctors.

Of course, Dean being Dean and Sam being Sam, they don’t. They simply refuse to just take the doctors’ word for it. Dean claps his hands together, suddenly all businesslike, pushing back the shock of the news in favour of stubborn determination. “Alright. Whatever. What now?” He echoes Sam’s earlier question. “I mean, we can’t just let this get you.”

Dean looks at him and Cas shakes his head, trying to summon up the enthusiasm Dean is displaying. “First things first: We have to get you out of here.”

Sam nods in agreement, standing. “I’ll talk to the doctors again. See if there’s really nothing they can do. Then we’re off.”

.~.~.~.

And that’s what they do. Sam and Dean take Cas home with them that same evening, Sam taking a detour to the pharmacy to nick as many painkillers as he can hide in his bulky jacket, the doctors’ words from earlier that evening echoing in his ears: ‘ _I won’t delude you. He will be in extreme pain. Be prepared for that…’_

They hit the road, knowingly leaving a case behind unsolved for the first time ever. One of their contacts will have to pick up their slack. Cas is quiet in the back seat, staring out of the window at the dreary landscape slipping by in the dark as they are heading towards Sioux Falls. They haven’t seen Bobby since the Purgatory incident and the brothers never mentioned him. Cas had had enough other things on his mind, with being human and everything that had happened, to spare much thought for their older friend, and now he is unsure about his welcome. Too much still lies unresolved between them.

Dean is tense at the steering wheel, and Sam is on the phone to warn Bobby they are on their way. He doesn’t say why. That is Castiel’s task. They haven’t asked Cas if he has any other plans. They don’t need to. Cas has given himself into their care, and he is willing to go along with whatever they plan to do.

On their drive home – because that is what Dean and Sam secretly call Bobby’s scrape-yard-surrounded rickety house in their heads – they have hours of silence ahead that need to be filled. The air is still in the car, seeming to press down on them like a heavy cloud.

It feels like something breaks when Dean finally drags in a reluctant breath. “So,” he states. “We need to come up with a plan,” he says matter-of-factly.

Sam nods and twists in his seat. “Cas? Any ideas how to get you out of this one?”

And that’s it, the signal they seem to have been waiting for. Ideas start to stretch their wings and soar around the interior of the car like paper airplanes. But they stub their noses on the windows and are soon lying twisted and broken in the footwells. No matter how they turn the issue, nothing useful seems to be forthcoming, and after a while, they agree to leave things be for the moment. They all need rest and this can wait for another day or two, at least until they are at Bobby’s.

They stop at a motel about two hours after nightfall. Cas wants nothing more than to head straight to bed, but Dean insists that he eat something, and so he does. It stays down, too, because, apart from the fatigue, he feels fine. Sam wordlessly places two pills next to his plate, slowly retracting his hand and Cas stares at the white and pink ovals, uncertain what to do.

“Take them,” Sam instructs, “The white one is to prevent you from having another seizure. The other’s an anti-emetic,” he explains.

Cas pushes the pink pill across the tabletop towards Sam until his finger tips brush across the back of Sam’s hand. “I will not need that one tonight,” he says firmly, but he takes the other one without another word, struggling for a moment with the unfamiliar motion sequence of swallowing it whole.

They don’t talk any more that night.

.~.~.~.

The next day passes mostly in silence, like they are just on another case, each of them using the car ride to put their thoughts in order and recuperate from the strain of putting their lives on the line yet again.

They make good progress and when Bobby opens the door that evening, his three favourite boys are standing outside, shoulder to shoulder, Sam and Dean flanking their little angel (Cas does look _small_ wedged between them like this). He wishes he had a camera to take advantage of having the children all in one place for once with no one on vacation in hell, or embarking on a soul-fuelled ego trip, or running off to god knows where.

Sam smiles at him, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Hey Bobby. It’s good to see you.”

“Hey yourself!” Bobby answers gruffly, uncrossing his arms with a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Sam steps forward to hug him, long hair brushing Bobby’s ear. Dean follows suite. Castiel waits in the background, seeming unsure of what to do. A shocked breath escapes him when Bobby steps forward to embrace him too, because it’s the most natural thing in the world. Because he is family. The angel even has the gall to look confused by such a natural way of greeting.

The hug is slightly awkward and Cas doesn’t seem to know where to put his hands. Bobby pulls back, noticing his discomfort, but one hand lingers on his shoulder. “I swear you had much more muscles when you still wore that stupid trench coat. But then you also were a crazy egomaniac, so I guess I can do without the sight of it. It’s good to have you back!” He pats Cas’ shoulder once, then turns to lead them inside.

Cas feels slightly dazed, but also warmed by his welcome - and undeserving of it. The unembellished honesty puts him instantly at ease, almost against his will. Bobby has a way of doing that.

Cas didn’t want to feel too at home here. It would hurt too much to leave, and he doesn’t deserve a home anyway. He hadn’t known that he was afraid of this encounter with the old hunter before it actually happened, but Bobby acts like he has forgiven him for his sins. Cas isn’t prepared for the feeling of intense gratitude that sweeps over him, making his throat go tight for a moment and his heart swell.

He ducks his head and steps into the house.

.~.~.~.

Everything seems fine on the surface, but the mood is off somehow. Bobby can’t quite put his finger on it. Then, during dinner, Cas suddenly jumps up and hurriedly excuses himself, looking pale green and apologetic.

“What’s up with _him_?” Bobby asks the other two when he hears the bathroom door close.

Dean and Sam share a look. Dean sighs. “You’ll have to ask him that yourself.” Sam adds a shrug to the statement, but it looks wrong somehow, like there is a weight pressing down on his shoulders.

Bobby is puzzled, although he lets it go, shaking his head and mumbling something about adolescent kids. Cas looks fine when he rejoins them a few minutes later, pointedly _not_ looking at Sam and Dean. Bobby notices, of course, but he decides to keep quiet about it for now.

There is obviously something going on that he is still ignorant of. The sudden tension in the air is hard to miss. He figures they will tell him eventually, though, in their own time.

.~.~.~.

The next day, he is still none the wiser. However, things are starting to not just smell fishy, but stinking like a dead shark left out in the sun for three weeks. Sam practically burying himself in books is not that suspicious, though strange under the circumstances. Cas keeping to himself doesn’t seem unusual. He probably has a lot of issues to work through, having been an angel of the Lord and a demi-god only a few months back. But Dean…

Bobby walks across the yard, two beer bottles in hand. As far as he can tell, the boys are not working any case, when he had first thought that maybe it is a secret mission he isn’t supposed to know about. Not that that would have stopped him, but they really have given him nothing to go on, despite his asking.

As he nears the workshop, Bobby listens for the clanging and swearing that means Dean is working on his car, but it’s quiet.

Bobby frowns. He steps around the half-open workshop door, expecting to find it empty, but there is Dean, his back half-turned to him, shoulders working beneath his shirt as he unscrews some bolt or nut under the hood of his Impala.

Dean’s face is tight, his teeth clenched. He looks furious, frustrated, viciously twisting the wrench as if it has done him some great personal injustice. The silent rage brings Bobby up short. There have only been a handful of other times he has seen Dean work his car that way, in smouldering silence, none of the usual tenderness in his movements when he treats his ‘baby’: After Cas had flown off claiming godhood – and after John had died.

Bobby has no idea what the matter is this time, but witnessing the scene before him makes all his mental alarm bells start ringing shrilly in his head.

He clears his throat to alert Dean of his presence, flinching back a step when Dean turns with a murderous expression, his tool raised to strike. Dean’s face clears instantly, though. “Bobby! Don’t sneak up on me like that.” He tries a smile, but it looks forced and sour, fooling no one.

Bobby nods at him, grumbling “Yeah, it’s me, you idjit. Who’d you think it would be?”

Dean looks sheepish as he puts the tool away, visibly making an effort to relax his tense body. “I dunno. Sorry.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Brought you something. Figured you might get thirsty.” He extends one bottle to Dean.

“Thanks, Bobby.” Dean pops the cap on his beer with the edge of a screwdriver from his toolkit and leans back against the Impala’s frame to take a sip. He’s looking relaxed enough now, so Bobby chances to ask a question. “What’s up with you, then? You were as tense as a Cupid’s bowstring just now. Everything okay?”

Dean’s eyes slip down to the bottle in his hands. “Yeah, sure.”

Bobby’s eyebrows draw together. “Something wrong with the car?” he tries.

“Uh, not really. Just checking her over.”

Bobby takes that in. He is sure Dean knows that his answers don’t add up. “Everything alright with Sam? He’s not going all cuckoo on us again, is he?”

Dean sighs through his nose. “Yeah, Sam’s okay.”

Bobby lets out a small huff of relieve. “Good. I was starting to worry since he’s behaving oddly, too. _You_ okay?” he continues on the same breath.

“Yes, Bobby! I’m fine,” Dean snaps, eyes suddenly on fire as he catches Bobby’s gaze. There is something else here. He’s sure of it.

Oh. _Oh_. “And how’s our angel friend doing after this whole affair we went through?”

The question has the desired effect. Dean’s face falls for a moment before closing off into something like a neutral expression, telling Bobby a lot more than Dean is probably intending to divulge.

“How should I know? You’ll have to ask _him_ that,” Dean deflects.

Bobby nods. “Fair enough.” He’s old enough to know a lost battle when he sees one. The trick is to retreat without getting completely destroyed. “I’ll be fixing up something to eat. I’ll call when it’s ready.”

He toasts Dean with his still unopened beer bottle and makes his way back to the house, puzzling over the boys’ strange behaviour. Bobby suspects he’ll be hearing some bad news sooner or later.

.~.~.~.

Now that Bobby has tried asking Dean and Sam, too – twice - but all he has gotten are evasions and the repeated advice to talk to Cas, finally, that’s what he does.

Cas is sitting on the front porch enjoying the sun and the smell of wet earth from the yard when Bobby finds him.

“So, what’s the deal?”

Cas blinks, blue eyes looking up at him. “What do you mean?”

Bobby gestures vaguely from where he’s leaning on the porch banister. “You know, all this. You three turning up here, no explanations, no case, no nothin’. I know something’s up, though. Sam keeps flipping through my library, reading books I’m sure he already knows by heart. Dean is tending to his damn car, though there’s nothing wrong with her that I can see, and you are behaving oddly, son. Well, more than usual. Is this some kind of teenage identity crisis because you aren’t god anymore?”

A faint smile tugs briefly at Cas’ lips, hearing the older man talk so candidly. He knows that Bobby won’t force him to speak. He has a way of waiting things out until you volunteer the truth on your own. But it feels wrong to keep his illness from him, now that he inquires directly after the situation. After all the things they’ve been through, he owes a little honesty to the man beside him.

Cas sights, shoulders slumping. He takes a deep breath to steel himself. “I am human now,” he starts, staring at his hands dangling between his knees. “That in itself is a situation not entirely new to me, as you are aware.”

Bobby just nods, not wanting to interrupt. He had already figured as much from the fact that Cas has been sticking around and not flitting off after a few hours, but when Cas had been human before, the mood had been different. Another kind of doom than an impending apocalypse seems to hang in the air around him now.

“My vessel’s soul… Jimmy Novak is gone. I own his body now. But… Jimmy has… I have… an abnormally high proliferation rate of my gastric lining cells.”

“English please.”

“I believe you know it as cancer. Stage four.”

Bobby gives a low whistle. “Whoo, boy! That’s quite a diagnosis!” It actually explains a lot, Bobby thinks. “What kind of treatment are you on?”

Cas glances over at him from under lowered lashes, then back at his feet. “None. There is no treatment at this stage.”

“So, this means… what? You obviously can’t heal yourself without your angel mojo but I’m sure one of your buddies…”

Castiel’s voice cuts in, growing hard and final. “This is not something an angel’s grace can cure. Also, Jimmy must have been sick long before he agreed to become my vessel, so the illness has had time to progress rather far. As long as I had my grace, the body was preserved in a stasis. Now, it is not.”

Bobby hums in understanding. “Is that why you didn’t think to get treatment before now?”

Cas shakes his head, frustrated with himself. “We do not check our vessels for illnesses, on the one hand because vessels are extremely rare and we cannot afford to be particularly selective, on the other hand because it is of no consequence to us. That an angel might lose its grace while in human form is almost unheard-of. But even if I still were an angel, I would still be sick. I would not die and the growth wouldn’t progress. It wouldn’t pain me, but it would still be there. At any rate, this discussion is futile. My grace is gone. It has been destroyed. There is no way to stop this.”

Bobby steps closer, uncrossing his arms and frowning as he sits down heavily next to Cas on the porch steps with a grunt. He laces his fingers together between his knees, mirroring Cas’ posture, and peers appraisingly at the former angel from under the rim of his baseball cap. He does not like what he sees. At all.

The weight of all that Cas is not saying hangs heavily in the air between them.

“So let me get this straight: You’re going to let yourself be defeated by this, after everything? One tiny little human ailment is going to put an end to you?”

Cas inclines his head. “At this point I do not see any other options.”

Bobby bristles. “That’s utter bull and you know it! We ain’t gonna let this happen to you!”

Cas looks at Bobby with a blank face. “You might have no other choice. I have already talked about it with Sam and Dean. Our discussion was not fruitful. There does not seem to be any solution to this problem.” He says the words like they are set in stone, unchangeable but Bobby refuses to be deterred. “Then we will damn well make one! Bad odds haven’t stopped us before, have they.”

Something stirs inside Cas, painfully twisting his guts like the first kick of an unborn child in its mother’s womb. Maybe it’s Bobby’s refusal to give up on him, or his fatherly aura, or something completely unrelated to this moment, but Cas suddenly finds himself voicing something he has barely allowed himself to think up until now. “What if I don’t _want_ to stop this?” he says, trying not to flinch back from what is falling out of his mouth, because it’s true. “What if this is my punishment for all the wrong I have done?”

Bobby turns his head sharply to look at him. His face is tight and angry. “Don’t you dare say such a thing, boy! You _don’t_ deserve to go like this, no matter what you might tell yourself.”

Cas knows better than to argue with the old hunter, but once the thought has been uttered, it seems to be taking root in his consciousness like a young tree, tearing up the soil of his thoughts and breaking apart his resistance. Does his Father still care, after everything, and sent this punishment down on him? Or is it yet another test? Or just Fate repaying him for his insolence?

Either way, he is willing to accept his sentence.

.~.~.~.

Whatever Cas may be feeling about his impending doom, Bobby isn’t anywhere near ready to give up, and he knows that Sam and Dean won’t accept it lying down, either, when he confronts them in the library later.

“What’s that I hear about Cas being on death row?”

Dean looks up from the book he is leafing through while Sam taps away on his laptop. “So Cas finally told you, huh?” The older Winchester sounds tired, almost defeated.

“Yeah. No thanks to you, idjits! Had to practically squeeze it out of him, too. He told me some wacky story about how he had cancer and has decided to just lie down and check out. Said there was no way to save him.”

Dean closes the book with a snap, turning to face Bobby, all businesslike. “Yeah, well, we could really use your help on this one, Bobby.” He has clearly been waiting to say that and get him into their boat since they arrived. It annoys Bobby that they left him out of the loop for a whole day. “Why didn’t you say so earlier? We could’ve saved a lot of time,” he complains.

Sam sighs, sitting up straighter in front of his laptop. “It wasn’t our secret to tell, Bobby.” He glances at Dean. “Besides, we weren’t sure how you would react to seeing Cas again, let alone hearing the news,” he adds reluctantly.

Bobby looks affronted. “Of course I’m not going to let our own private ex-angel die, you idjits!”

“Even after what he did, going insane, thinking he was god?” Dean squints at Bobby like he is looking for a sign of insincerity.

“Everybody goes through puberty, Dean. Personally, I don’t think you ever came out of it. Grow up, boy! The past is the past.”

The brothers stare, surprised. When they had last seen Bobby, it had seemed like he would never get over what Cas had done to Sam and Ellie. Especially Dean had been anxious to get their angel out of Bobby’s reach before he could harm him. It looks like Bobby has had enough time to think things through now, because he doesn’t miss a beat before going on: “Anyway, now that I’m in on the big secret, let’s get to work. Tell me what you’ve got.”

Sam nods, picking at a stack of notes beside the computer. “We’ve already talked through the obvious scenarios. You know, compiling ideas. We couldn’t think of anything useful, though. Also, I’ve already been through the books in your library more often than I can count. I doubt they’ll give us anything new. Right now, I’m searching the web for another spirit healer or whatever they call it these days. We could bind a reaper or something but Cas would not want his disease just passed on to someone else. I suppose we don’t need to talk about demon deals, though I doubt one of them would be willing to deal in this case anyway, these days.” Sam finishes his summary of their options.

“Maybe there’s a spell somewhere.” Dean suggests. “Or we could just get his grace back.”

Things take off from there. Cas is reluctant to join them when they sit down around the kitchen table that evening for a coordinated brainstorming session, trying to come up with something, _anything_ useful, bouncing ideas back and forth.

Dean can’t help but be reminded of that one time when he was sure to die of heart failure and they found a way around it. How he had been as good as dead after the car crash and still survived. But none of his brushes with death were due to an innate condition (well, maybe innate monster-magnetism, but that didn’t count).

Cas had explained it to them yet again, how Jimmy’s body had cancer cells and that that was something even an angel couldn’t heal because it would mean changing all DNA, the foundation of the bodily structure, and that is simply impossible. If he still had his grace, he could alleviate the symptoms, but even then, he wouldn’t be able to selectively burn out parts of his body. The potential for cancer was born into Jimmy. There is nothing to be done.

The reason no angel ever dies of cancer, Cas explains, is that they preserve their vessel in the exact state it was in the moment they entered it, so cancer may have formed but it wouldn’t grow. However, it wouldn’t shrink either. And Castiel is not an angel any more. Only his grace could save him now, if not healed him, but that is gone, devoured by the souls of Purgatory.

Dean, Sam and Bobby listen with frowns on their faces as he tells them that an angels’ grace is unique. There is no way to substitute for it, and so Cas sees himself doomed. It is dispiriting to have him giving up so easily. It’s proof of how far they’ve come that none of them seriously suggests trying a demon deal to solve this problem. Cas doesn’t have a soul to gamble with, anyway – another reason why this turn of events is so hard to accept: Cas has no soul because angels are meant to live to see eternity. There is no afterlife for them. If he dies, it will be forever.

No one of the four counts on God to step in one more time, either. They are on their own here, and right now, there seems to be nothing they can do.

Still, the Winchesters are not known for their inclination to give up easily. It is dark outside when they finally finish discussing potential plans. He should have known, Cas thinks. It was obvious that they wouldn’t let this go. Despite everything, Cas hadn’t been able to help but temporarily feel a little hope budding within him. In the end they come up empty-handed, though, and everybody leaves for bed with dimmed spirits.

Cas is exhausted and falls instantly asleep. On the other side of the room, Dean is staring at the ceiling and listening to Cas quietly, but steadily breathing, and his brother’s snoring. Their talk with Bobby had rekindled his spirits considerably because Bobby is right: They can’t just let this happen. It just isn’t their style, and they are all in this together, so they should try to find a way out of it as a team, too.

Dean remembers the frantic hours after Sam’s death and how absolutely unwilling, _unable_ to give up he had been, and it had worked! He had found a way to save his brother in the end. It didn’t matter that it had been at the cost of his own life; his soul. He also recalls how desperate Sam had been when he had found out about Dean’s impending doom. He, too, had refused to give up, and Dean had expected nothing less.

But Cas had been the one to save him then, not Sam. His brother’s frantic search for a way out had been entirely fruitless, a waste of time and energy. It had taken an angel of the Lord to pull him from the Pit.

Cas’ situation seems similar now, only their roles are reversed: Cas is the one in a hopeless situation only a miracle can fix, seemingly resigned to his fate like Dean had been, and they are the ones refusing to give up. It is a long time before Dean’s eyes fall shut and he finally sleeps, too.

.~.~.~.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, feedback and comments are much appreciated <3 
> 
> I already finished writing this story and will post the rest of the chapters shortly.


	3. At Bobby's

**Chapter 3 – At Bobby’s**

A few days later, Cas is standing in front of the bathroom mirror, T-shirt lifted up and staring at his navel. The little hollow is strangely fascinating to him. Eventually, he lets go of the shirt with one hand and starts exploring the puckered birth scar, dipping his finger into its velvety recesses and marvelling at the perfect design of the human body.

Jimmy’s mother had nurtured her son for nine months through a thread of blood vessels attached to this very point. It had literally been the chord binding him to life, but even though it had been such an important part of his body, nothing but a scar remained of the organ that had been discarded once its purpose was fulfilled. All humans shared this same scar, even if they didn’t share anything else. It was a sign, a permanent reminder of their mother’s love, more enduring than any trace a father could leave.

Cas raises his eyes from his abdomen to the mirror, wondering what it would be like to have a mother. His own Father had marked him, too, with his Grace and his love, but both seem lost to him now; both the bond and the feeling.

Dean and Sam have navels, too, he muses. Realising that they share this trait, he somehow feels closer to them than he has ever felt to any of his angel brothers.

.~.~.~.

Dean looks up as he hears Cas coming down the stairs. A moment later the angel appears in the kitchen doorway, looking tired and with a tousled head of damp hair that speaks of a recent shower, but his eyes are calm. Dean holds back the question of how he’s feeling today in favour of silently offering his friend a bowl of breakfast cereal; something light for his tender stomach.

Cas takes it hesitantly and Dean uses the opportunity to quickly down the rest of his spiked coffee lest his friend gets a hold of the wrong mug. It’s not that he’d begrudged Cas a little pick-me-up to start off the day – heaven knows _he_ needs it! And Cas looks even more like he could use a bit of warmth in his tummy - , but Sammy claims that it wouldn’t mix well with the meds Cas is taking. Dean knows his little brother is right and doesn’t want to take chances with this.

Their days have quickly developed a routine. Dean is often up first. His worry won’t let him sleep much. Sometimes, Sam is still doing research when the early morning light creeps over the horizon and they pass each other in the hallway, moving in opposite directions.

Bobby comes down shortly after Dean to monitor his use of the kitchen equipment, as he claims, but it’s more to keep him company until their ex-angel gets up.

They let Cas sleep as long as he wants, mostly in the vain hope that it will make him look less exhausted. It never does. After breakfast, they hit the books, though Cas is only half-heartedly joining them.

Lunch is usually a mid-afternoon affair. Despite Dean’s best efforts to convince Cas of the goodness of hamburgers, steak and salami pizza, the former angels’ taste has developed more into Sam’s direction - but it did not stop there. Cas is almost a vegetarian now, much to Dean’s dismay and Sam’s glee.

Bobby, however, is not really surprised to discover this little fact, and really, what else would you expect from a being of light and air? As long as Cas eats what Bobby puts on the table – hell, as long as he eats at all! – everything’s fine by him. And it’s not like Cas wouldn’t eat meat. He just would never ask for it.

By the time dinner rolls around, Sam is mostly up and running again, too. The evening is filled with a thorough discussion of their findings and results from the day and, in Sam’s case, the night before. It’s not unusual for Cas to have left the scene by then, though, and when Dean returns to their room after a quick night-cap in the study, he’s already asleep.

Sometimes Dean regrets that they don’t seem to have time to talk at all. But most evenings, he’s glad not to have to as their search has turned up nothing so far, and the feeling of hopelessness settling over him is pressing down on his heart as well as his tongue, making it impossibly hard to speak.

.~.~.~.

They are half-way through their afternoon research session when the doorbell rings. Bobby immediately leaves to open the front door for their visitor. Sam, Dean and Cas share some raised eyebrows over the lack of grumbling from their host.

They barely have time to wonder about it, though, because, a moment later, Bobby returns with Sheriff Mills at his side. “Hey, boys! Heard you were in town and thought I’d stop by to see how you’re doing.”

Sam immediately jumps up to greet her warmly. “Sheriff Mills! What a surprise.”

“I told you, it’s Jodie.” She smiles at him and engulfs him in a motherly hug. “It’s good to see you, Sam.” She levels a searching look at him. “You seem to be doing well.” There’s an unmistakeable knowing glint in her eye.

Sam’s frowns because of the implied knowledge about his recent history; the trauma of Hell, the broken wall in his mind, the mania and hallucinations, Lucifer… “How…?”

“Jodie’s been coming ‘round a lot more often lately,” Bobby cuts in, his face going tomato red. “We talk about stuff.”

“You told her about _me_?” Sam sounds accusingly.

“Oh, come on! It’s not like your mental state is… well, a state secret.”

“My mental state,” Sam repeats flatly.

“Well, you know what I mean.” Bobby shrugs, trying for nonchalance.

Dean decides to jump in before his little brother can get too worked up about Bobby’s blatant indiscretion. “Ah, Bobby, what exactly is going on?” Dean squints at his surrogate father and Jodie, and Bobby promptly lights up like a fuse. “Nothin’! Jesus, Dean! Get your mind out of the gutter!”

“Ahem.” Cas clears his throat in what is clearly meant to be a discrete manner. “I do not believe we have been introduced,” he says in his grave, dignified voice. Standing, he extends a hand to Jodie. “My name is Castiel. I am… a friend.” The phrase ‘angel of the lord’ hovers in the air like the toll of a distant funeral bell, only for the four men to hear.

Jodie’s eyes narrow as she takes Cas’ proffered hand. “You look familiar.”

Dean scoffs. “That might be because half a year ago, his face was all over the news. Mass murderer and all.”

“But…? I take it there’s more to it than that since he’s hanging out with you guys.”

“It’s complicated,” Sam says awkwardly.

Jodie nods and lets go of Cas’ hand after looking into his eyes, searching. “Figures.”

Cas has the presence of mind to stay quiet and let his friends handle the sheriff.

“So,” she says when there doesn’t seem to be any more information forthcoming, and turns to Bobby. “Bobby Singer is harbouring yet another fugitive.” But there’s no threat in her voice, only humour.

“Let’s all sit down and we’ll explain.”

She makes herself comfortable opposite Sam and Dean while Bobby leaves to get them some beers as their current round is at least one bottle short. Jodie glances over at Cas, who has picked up the book he was leafing through before, and is now quietly reading. She frowns, giving herself time to take in his appearance.

“Castiel, right? Uhm…”

He raises his head.

“I know it’s none of my business but are you sure you’re okay? I mean, you look kind of… unwell.” Jodie trails of when Cas suddenly flashes sharp, electric-blue eyes at her.

He contemplates if he should answer her, then speaks. “I am indeed no in the best health.”

The atmosphere turns serious and heavy in a matter of heart beats. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Ah, Jodie,” Sam interrupts, trying to defuse the tension, “How’re you doing, anyway?”

.~.~.~.

Even after relaxing a little and letting their minds rest for an afternoon, the next days of continued research don’t yield any results and spirits are low. For want of something else to do they decide to embark on a hunting trip.

Cas won’t be dissuaded from accompanying them and so they let him – and that’s a good thing because he is the one keeping a demon from cleaving Sam’s scull in two. The close call leaves them all a bit shaken. Dean is cursing himself for not being near enough to Sam to protect him himself and, at the same time, for letting Cas get so very much in harms’ way that the former angel was close enough to block the blow intended for his brother.

They are all lucky nobody had been killed but the demon, in the end. It had been as surprised as Sam and Dean to find that the weakened ex-angel seemed to grow and swell with vigour in the face of danger. He was still a precise, deadly fighter, and for a few moments, the shine had been back in his eyes, that unstoppable determination they knew lived in him once upon a time.

Through the incident, Cas re-discovers that he feels more himself when they are on a hunt, confident, almost like his angel powers are still with him. The others notice the lifting of the generally gloomy mood, too, and even though they would rather confine their sick friend to Bobby’s home care, they decide to allow him to tag along on further hunts, should there be any, as long as he can take it. It’s not like he really is a burden on them. With his extensive knowledge, lightning-fast reflexes and resolve, he remains an excellent addition to their seasoned double team.

.~.~.~.

The night after they return from the hunt, Cas wakes shivering and muffling a choked scream in his pillow, the shreds of his dream still clinging to his consciousness like a taint he cannot shake off just yet. Tears well up in his eyes and he blinks them open, searching the dark for something to focus on.

It takes him a minute to convince himself that it had all been a dream and to remind his drowsy brain that Dean and Sam are asleep only yards away, just on the other side of the room, Bobby snoring down the hall.

He feels queasy. For once, it has nothing to do with his illness. The scene in his dream had been so vivid, his vengeful, mean emotions terrifying him with their realness. Now that he is awake, he can feel regret and guilt, shame and fear churning in his gut.

When Cas had had a dream for the very first time, he had been both fascinated and terrified. Dean and Sam had found themselves in the unusual position of having to guide a grown man through this part of adapting to a human existence. Eventually, he had learned to handle the shifts between reality and virtual experiences, but sometimes, he still needs to make a deliberate effort to process what his subconscious shows him in his sleep. Sometimes, he still has difficulty discerning between dreams and reality, like now, when his emotions are bubbling inside his chest like lava in a volcano, hot and caustic.

His dream had taken him back to the night he had opened the gate to Purgatory, to the first minutes of his new existence. The rush of power had been truly exhilarating. He could not deny that, if he was honest with himself.

What had scared him beyond panic, though, was that he had barely been able to keep his new urges and instincts from lashing out uncontrolled at the people who had adopted him into their family, even before he had lost his: He had been almost too weak to stop himself from killing Dean, Sam and Bobby for their perceived insolence, then.

Now, in his dream, he had not had that self-control.

It was a horrifying feeling, having to stand witness like a stranger in his own body while foreign emotions of rage and arrogance welled up inside him and swamped the affection he felt for his friends. He had been powerless to stop it. He knows he would have killed them then in reality, too, if he had loved them even a tiny bit less. As it was, he had only just been able to flee before any permanent damage could be done.

Well, permanent to the humans, anyway. His brothers were gone, and though he feels little sympathy for Raphael, he sometimes misses Balthazar so much that the pain brings tears to his eyes. Of course, being human and entirely without his connection to Heaven, he can always pretend that this is the true reason for their absence, but he knows perfectly well, now that he is restored to his right mind, that he can neither justify nor explain why he has all but murdered one of the few true friends he had in all of the heavenly host, had extinguished his light even before taking in all the souls of Purgatory.

For some of his crimes, there will never be an excuse.

He will never forgive himself for Balthazar’s death, but he can live with it. Re-living, in his dream, the crucial moments where he had decided _not_ to ‘punish’ his friends, but failing this time to keep himself in check, had shown him again that he most definitely would _not_ have been able to manage having their deaths on his conscience – and he wouldn’t just have killed them either, he knows. The rage he had felt at that moment would have obliterated them completely, body and soul alike.

It isn’t really a surprise to him that the thought of how close he had been to destroying the one good thing he had ever had is giving him nightmares.

He lies awake for a while, staring at the dark ceiling and trying to reign in his emotions. Getting his erratic breathing under control is harder than he thought it would be, but he tries to be quiet so he won’t wake Sam and Dean.

Part of him wants to talk about what happened, what plagues him in his dreams, but he is afraid to come clean in regards to the finer details, afraid they might still reject him even though he knows, rationally, that if they haven’t abandoned him yet, they would never leave him just for this.

.~.~.~.

Cas is subdued the next morning. Something is definitely weighing him down. After lunch Dean pulls him aside into Bobby’s study.

“Cas, man, what is it? You’ve seemed off all day.”

Cas just shrugs. “It is nothing, Dean. Just…” His mouth closes abruptly over the rest of the sentence. But Dean is not stupid. They are sleeping in the same room, after all.

“Did you have another dream? You can tell me, you know.” Dean’s voice is gentle but Cas remains silent on the issue.

“Please don’t push, Dean,” he says quietly, eyes downcast. “I do not wish to talk about it.”

Reluctantly, Dean backs down. He reminds himself that Cas has gotten much better at handling his dreams in the months since he became human. Dean just wished he would ask for help when he needs it. Memories and flashbacks were tough enough, but dreams could mess you up so badly… and though Dean has a hard time admitting it to himself, talking about them helps. He wants Cas to know that he has that option. “I’m here if you change your mind,” he says. Cas just nods.

.~.~.~.

At first, Sam had felt that he could never ever forgive Cas for tearing down the walls in his head, putting him at risk for his own gain, but time has proven him wrong. He understood why Cas had done what he did and, over time, he has found that his own crimes outshone Cas’ oversights by far. So who was he to judge?

Also, having Cas around for an extended period of time, he has come to see that underneath it all, he is just as human as he and Dean.

But the most important thing is that he realized he _likes_ Cas, not just respects and fears him as a servant of the Lord. Now, that all those elements were removed from the picture, he finds that he regards Cas just as much as family as Dean does – and family means forgiving someone for their flaws and mistakes. It means loving them despite everything, even if it hurts.

Though Sam wouldn’t go quite as far as to say he _loves_ Cas, he is willing to admit that he is very fond of him and that he is able to leave the past behind for his sake.

.~.~.~.

Dean is watching from the doorway of the living room as Sam and Cas talk quietly, heads together. Presently, Cas smiles, then even laughs at something Sam just said.

Dean can’t help but feel a little jealousy. True, his bond with Cas is of a much more profound nature, but the friendship that has developed between the angel and his brother has grown on a more organic basis. Three years ago, Cas had looked down on Sam with disgust, even hostility. But Sam, without even trying particularly hard, had won him over.

Now, their relationship is easy-going and free of the tension Dean sometimes still feels as a result of Cas’ betrayal. For Sam, it had been a mistake easily forgiven because he seldom held a grudge for long, no matter how deeply somebody hurt him. It wasn’t in his nature.

Dean finds it a lot harder than he initially thought to put the events of the past year behind him – and Cas could probably feel that latent unease, though they both try to ignore it.

They are nearing the half-year anniversary of the defeat of the new god, and still it is so strange to see Cas as a human. He had adapted to the basics rather fast, like shaving and changing his cloths. Dean likes to say they have managed to house-train him in record time, too.

But sometimes he still has something ethereal, other-worldly about him. It is in the distant, faraway look in his eyes, the way he holds his head, forever innocently curious like a child. Knowing his days are numbered reeks of a fundamental wrongness that is beyond words, a bit like shooting a frolicking puppy, Dean thinks, with the bullet moving in slow motion and ample chance to see it coming.

.~.~.~.

The brave front Dean puts up whenever Cas is around is not fooling anybody. Sam knows just how much it pains his brother to see their friend frail and broken, bowed and brought to his knees by a human illness. The unfairness of it all does not escape Sam either.

So, Sam and Dean put their heads together one afternoon to try and find something to alleviate the gloomy-doomy mood that has settled on the house. Neither of them can stand the oppressive quiet any more.

It takes a while but they come up with something. Well, Dean does and seems so pleased with himself that Sam doesn’t have the heart to shoot him down when he asks for his help. So, the next day, Dean walks into the library, where Cas is reading, with a broad grin on his face.

„Hey, Cas! I know it’s not really my business what you do in your free time but, man, I gotta ask. You still a virgin?“

Cas instantly bristles. “This is not a subject I am comfortable with, as you know very well.”

Dean smirks. “I take it that’s a yes. You know I promised tha-“

“I am asking you to let it go,” Cas cuts across him.

“But-“

“Dean, please. Let it go.” There’s a tiredness in Castiel’s voice that makes Dean back up a little. “Why is this so important to you all of a sudden?” There is frustration in Cas’ voice.

“Because you’re human now, and to humans, this IS important. It’s practically what life’s all about!”

Cas is not convinced. On the contrary: “You are wrong, Dean. This believe may be rooted firmly in _your_ culture, but in others, it is the highest honour to die a virgin. It is not shameful at all. I simply do not see why this matters so much to you.”

That does throw Dean a bit. He tries to re-group. “Alright. Just… have you tried doing it to yourself, at least?”

Cas cocks his head questioningly.

Dean rolls his eyes. “Oh, come on! You can’t seriously be that naïve! I mean masturbation, Cas.”

A look of puzzlement tinged with disgust crosses Cas’ face. “You _are_ aware that the word means ‘soiling one’s self with one’s hand’.” The statement is actually more a question, and rightly so.

“Huh?” Dean blinks, but catches himself quickly. “No, I didn’t know that, but that’s kind of the point.” He grins wickedly.

“It does not seem a desirable outcome to me,” Cas states dryly.

There is clearly no use in arguing, so Dean dismisses the point and tries for another angle. “Whatever, Cas. Did you never feel the… urge to try it, what with all the porn you watched?” This seems to hit a nerve.

“I…” Cas looks flustered. “I only watched a pornographic film _once_. And only half of it at that because your grandfather interrupted.”

“And you learned nothing from it.” Dean formulates the sentence like a statement, hoping to lure Cas into the right direction. It works.

“I _did_ learn to kiss,” the former angel says indignantly, noticing the triumphant glimmer in Dean’s eyes a little too late.

“And you liked it, didn’t you?”

Cas stares wide-eyed at Dean as if he just realized what he has revealed, but Dean ploughs on.

“Well, I can totally promise you you’re going to like this too, then.” He grins. Cas feel like he has just bitten into a grapefruit.

Later, when he returns to his room, there’s something lying on his bed. Sam’s laptop, a CD and a sheet of paper. Cas unfolds it up to read. ‘ _Pick a quiet place and try it. You’ll like it, I promise_ ,’ Dean has scrawled on top of what looks like a web page print-out giving a step-by-step walk-through ‘the basics of jerking-off’.

Castiel sighs. He would bet anything on the CD being another film of the infamous pizza-man kind.

Carefully, he refolds the paper, tucks it into the CD-case and puts it into his bedside drawer. Then he gathers up the laptop to take it back to Sam.

The brothers are sitting side by side on the library sofa, reading, when he comes down the stairs, placing the little computer on the desk before them without a word. Sam just glances at him, then lowers his head again, looking sad, which puzzles Cas. He would have thought he’d be happy to have his stolen laptop returned to him.

Dean’s gaze lingers a little longer, but to Cas surprise he doesn’t say a word, just resumes reading after a moment. The subject is not mentioned again. The CD and instructions remain in the drawer.

.~.~.~.

Dean, however, won’t give up on lightening the mood so easily. He knows that their first attempt at bringing some cheer back into the house was probably a little too bold. Cas hadn’t been all that receptive.

He has put a bit of thought into the issue, however, and come up with a few other options Cas might be more amendable to.

“So, any plans? What do you wanna do?” Dean is trying for a light voice to defy the depressing mood permeating everything these days. He grins at Cas. “Brought you something. In case you need ideas.”

He throws a book at Cas which Cas grabs out of the air. His reflexes are still fast, not quite human. He reads the title and almost laughs. ”Dean, you know perfectly well that I have already been to all places possible. What makes you think there are a thousand more places to see before I die?”

“This is my way of saying you need to do something fun once in a while. We don’t need to hunt if you’d rather spend your time on something else. It’s not like we get paid or anything!”

Cas avoids looking at Dean. “I like to hunt. It keeps me occupied.” There’s an undercurrent to the words, dark and hopeless. Dean can hear what Cas isn’t saying: He needs the hunts to not feel useless, to know his human existence, however brief, amounted to _something_ and, above all, he needs it to keep his mind off being sick, off dying. Dean can’t argue with any of that. It’s what he’d be doing in Cas’ place. It’s exactly what he did after the demon deal.

But he had a year and Cas may only have weeks.

“Look.” Dean tentatively places a hand on Cas’ shoulder, barely touching him as if he’s afraid he might break him if he squeezed too hard. “I really think you should enjoy life while there is still time. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about. I just don’t want you to –“ He swallows, forcing out the next words “… go to your grave, feeling you missed out. Okay? If you want to stay on the job as long as possible, that’s fine. But give this a bit of thought, okay?” Dean indicates the book, but he really means _everything_.

Cas inclines his head. “I will,” he promises.

“Good. Oh, and Sam says, dinner’s ready. You coming?” It’s not really a question. Dean won’t give him a choice here and somehow, Cas is grateful for that. He still hasn’t gotten quite used to the need to feed this body and has to be reminded occasionally, especially now that his stomach is so reluctant to announce that it is time for food.

.~.~.~.

Usually, they don’t pay particular attention to what day of the week it is. Being hunters, they have no working week. They need to be prepared to do their job 24/7. No weekends, no holidays. So why heed the 7-day-rhythm the world is breathing?

They have only had a few brief periods when every day counted, every hour mattered, every second was precious, even. Now is such a time. It is rather cliché, but only one (or more) of them dying makes them realize what life has to offer - and right now, that is movies, another point on Dean’s list of ideas.

He has suggested a little break from their tense routine of frantic research and hasty hunts. After all, it’s Friday night, and Sam and Dean have spent some time compiling a catalogue of films that ‘you have to see before you die’, as Dean puts it, none to gently.

At first, Sam had wanted no part in this macabre exercise but seeing the choices Dean had picked out quickly convinced him to join the effort after all, to prevent Cas from getting too skewered a picture of humanity into his head.

So, tonight is movie night. Technically speaking, every night has the potential to be movie night. They take to watching films whenever their minds are too numb to continue reading ancient tomes and esoteric websites. For Sam, lounging in front of the TV means a sure way to get some much-needed sleep. For Dean, it means infinite amusement over Cas’ puzzlement. For Bobby, it means he has to stoke up on popcorn. But they have to take what they can get.

.~.~.~.

“Dean.”

Dean surfaces from sleep with a start. The Colt from under his pillow is in his hand in an instant and aiming at the shadow standing by his bed before he realizes who it is.

“Jeez, Cas! Don’t _do_ that!”

Castiel’s eyes are wide. “I am sorry I alarmed you,” he murmurs, obviously startled himself by Dean’s sudden movement.

“No. It’s okay.” Dean tries to mould his voice into something approaching calm, feeling the adrenalin ebb off again as he carefully puts the weapon away. “What is it?”

“I cannot seem to fall asleep.” Cas looks sheepish, and suddenly Dean has a vision of him lying awake and contemplating whether or not to disturb Dean or Sam with his insomnia. “I think I had another bad dream,” he admits.

Dean searches his face for any signs of lingering fear, like he evaluated Sam when they were little and his baby brother was suffering a nightmare. He finds none, just a vague sense of unease, highlighted by Cas’ dishevelled hair and bed-rumpled T-shirt. It is the second night in a row that Dean has been woken like this, which worries him because he had been of the opinion that Cas’ nightmares had diminished in the past months, though recent cases like the ghost hunt always seem to bring them to the surface again for a while.

“Gonna tell me what it was about?” he offers.

Cas gives a minute shake of his head. “I don’t remember it all that well.”

“But…?” Dean props himself up on his elbows so he can better watch Cas’ face in the dark room.

Cas shifts, eyes darting away.

Dean straightens up further. “Cas, sit down,” he instructs gently. The angel does so, tentatively perching on the edge of Dean’s bed, staring at his hands folded in his lap.

“So, talk,” Dean prods when he remains silent for another minute. It still feels weird to do this for somebody other than Sam.

“I… I think it had something to do with last year.” Cas starts hesitantly. He squints into the dark as if he can see the images of his dream playing out on the opposite wall.

Dean is not surprised to hear that. Until recently, he had not given particular thought to the exact way in which the events surrounding Cas’ godhood have traumatised Cas, but it’s clear that he has suffered. It’s not the first time Cas has been plagued by nightmares about being possessed by the Leviathans or about hurting his friends. His guilty conscience won’t let him rest, even though they have tried to assure him time and again that they don’t hold his bad choices against him any longer. Even Bobby has forgiven him, for Christssake! Now, only Cas has to accept that his mistakes were part of the eternal learning process that is called a human life.

Time drags on for a bit more ere Cas begins to speak hesitantly. “You recall when you trapped me in the ring of holy fire?”

Dean nods. He remembers all too well: how he had put his trust in Cas until the very end, even when all evidence was already against him, how, even after they had imprisoned him in a circle of fire, he had still believed in some desperate, stubborn part of his mind that it had all been a mistake, a horrible misunderstanding.

Castiel keeps talking. “You… you left me there. - And I am not blaming you! It was your right,” he adds hastily, needing to clarify that he understands. “I see that now. But… I… in my dream, you were not fast enough to outrun the demons coming for us. And I was… I was trapped and…” He breaks off, hunching over.

Dean looks at him, his heart going out to Cas. He knows exactly what Cas is feeling, even if he were not to reveal the rest of his dream.

The former angel takes a quivering breath. “I heard… Bobby yell first, telling you to run, and then your voice… like you were being torn apart, and the last thing you did was to scream for Sam to go back and free me, save me… I… I…” Cas’ voice fails him. Even in the darkness Dean can see moisture glistening in his eyes. He is glad the shadows are hiding the rest of Cas’ face so he doesn’t have to watch his expression.

Dean doesn’t know what to say so he says nothing, just listens to the hitching of each of Cas’ exhales.

Eventually, Cas manages to control his erratic breathing, dragging it back from the edge of crossing over into what sounds suspiciously like sobs. He swallows. “Even when you where dying, and it was my fault, you were still trying to save me. And Sam was, too. Even though I did not deserve it. But the worst thing was… the worst of it all…” His voice stutters to a halt again but Dean doesn’t need to hear him continue to know that, apart from the guilt and shame he must have felt when they still tried to save him despite everything, there is nothing worse than being forced to witness your loved ones die and being unable to help.

“It’s okay, Cas,” he says gently, finally daring to move enough to sit up fully and put a hand on his friends’ shoulder. Cas turns his head to look at him. His cheeks are dry, but he looks utterly spent, the shadows of the night accentuating the gaunt appearance of his face. “We got out of it okay, remember? We are here for you now and we are not going anywhere, you hear me?”

Cas nods, biting his lip.

“Go back to sleep, hm?”

Cas nods again, straightening his shirt as he stands and looks down at Dean. “Thank you, Dean,” Cas says solemnly, his voice back in its usual grave, steady tone.

“Anytime, man. See you in the morning, okay?”

Cas turns to face the room, but doesn’t move away yet. “Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“Please do not attempt to save me at your own expense, especially when there is no hope.” Cas’ back is turned so he doesn’t see the shock, followed by pity, flickering over Dean’s features before he can stop it. There is nothing he could answer to that that wouldn’t be a lie, so he stays silent.

He watches Cas return to his bed before he sinks back into the pillow and thinks of all the times he had been unable to save somebody. It is a horrible feeling. The sad thing is that he understands Cas in a strange, twisted way. He had not wanted Sam to try and save him either. That hadn’t kept his little idiot brother from trying, though, nor would it keep them from trying to save Cas now.

.~.~.~.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, feedback and comments are much appreciated <3


	4. The Village

**Chapter 4– The Village**

It’s been close to three weeks of intense research, interrupted only by the occasional hunt in the vicinity of Sioux Falls, when they finally stumble upon a workable lead.

“I think I’ve got something!” Sam is audibly excited, tapping a page in some ancient tome they unearthed from the Campbell library. Dean and Cas gather to look over his shoulder as he explains what he read.

“Ever heard about a soul eater? They are supposed to cleanse you of your inadequacies through devouring the body, purifying it through… uhm… digestion, and giving birth to it again. Pretty gruesome business but it could work, I think.” He turns to look at Cas.

Bobby frowns at their tentatively hopeful expressions from across the table. “You know, I have never heard of anyone ever encountering and actual soul eater in my entire hunting career. I doubt they even exist.”

Sam gives him a glare that tells him to shut the fuck up. He won’t be discouraged yet and counters Bobby. “But they wouldn’t exactly show up on a hunter’s radar, would they? They aren’t evil as far as I can tell from this,” he taps the text again, “and anyway, it’s worth following up on this, don’t you think?”

Bobby keeps frowning, even when Cas begins to speak, warm breath rushing past Sam’s ear as he leans closer to study the page. “They are real, though I have not had news of a live one in quite some time. Centuries.” He sounds like they are discussing yet another case, like this has nothing at all to do with him. By now they all know it’s part of a coping mechanism they all share, so nobody has yet dared to call the bluff.

“Well then!” Bobby claps his hands. “Let’s get to work!”

.~.~.~.

Now that they know what to look for, their spirits lift considerably and they set to work, mostly searching the internet for anything that might point them in the right direction, but also calling up fellow hunters and digging through Bobby’s library yet again.

Two days later, Sam comes across a promising forum post on which they can follow up.

“Here, listen to this. There’s someone claiming their little sister was cured from MS by a creature who tore her apart and stuck her back together with... ah… spit. Huh. Weird way to put it, but it sounds like it could be our kind of thing. Anyway, this guy goes on about how well it worked and how puzzled the doctors are.”

Dean looks sceptical. “That’s all? Not much to go by.”

“Ah…” Sam clicks his mouse a few times. “There’s another one. Diabetes type 1 healed. Oh, and get this: Someone had his kidney removed because of a tumour, then the other one failed. Whatever that thing is, it saved his life in the nick of time. Guy has two perfectly healthy kidneys now. No tumours.”

He looks up at Cas, whose head is cocked to the side in his default contemplative expression. Sam waits for the verdict.

“Where did you say this is supposed to have happened?” Dean interjects. Sam bites his lips, scrolls down the page.

“Uhm, I’m not sure. Somewhere in New Mexico, I think. Ah! There.” He points at the screen, not even trying to pronounce the village name.

“What do you think?” Dean asks Bobby.

“Might be worth a shot.”

“Cas? You game to go for a ride?” Cas inclines his head, cautiously optimistic. “It does not seem that I have any other choice.”

“Well, then, pack you stuff and we’re off.” Dean claps him on the shoulder, standing.

“Wait. Aren’t we going to look into this a little further? It’s not like this place is right around the corner.” Sam is a bit confused by the sudden atmosphere of departure.

“I’m sure you’ll have some solid data by the time the trunk is loaded, Sammy.” Dean pats his shoulder and smiles sweetly at his little brother, who snorts indignantly, but turns back to the screen to pull up some more information.

.~.~.~.

It’s raining when they hit the road. Cas sits in the back seat wrapped in his old trench coat, but he is wearing a pair of Bobby’s trousers and a Winchester-flannel-shirt underneath it. Autumn is coming and the air is already chilly.

Dean drums his fingers on the steering wheel to the beat of AC/DC, but otherwise it’s quiet in the car. Sam’s eyes wander to the rear view mirror to check on Cas every ten or so minutes. The former angel stares at the scenery, apparently deep in thought.

They travel until nightfall, when the rain becomes too heavy for Dean to drive comfortably. The motel they check into looks run-down and cheep from the outside, but the room is cosy and clean, better than most they’ve seen over the years. The only problem is that there is no store around that’s still open, and the last gas station lies 30 miles back down the road. So, the little cooking area in the corner doesn’t do them much good.

Dean volunteers, for once, to get some of their emergency rations out of the trunk. When he returns, Sam and Cas have switched on the TV, reclining on one of the double beds.

“Sam.” Dean motions for his brother to come over and help him in the kitchenette. He throws a look at Cas, who ignores them in favour of watching the screen. “We’re running low on supplies. I only found this.” He shows a can of bean soup. His eyes flicker involuntarily back to Cas.

“Oh.” Sam understands instantly. He nods and settles himself down on the bed again, while Dean takes out a pot to warm the soup. When it’s steaming, he pours it into a bowl, adds a spoon and carries it over to the bed. He offers it to Cas. “Your dinner’s ready.”

Cas takes up the spoon, but then he seems to remember something. He frowns, first at the soup, then at Dean’s empty hands, lastly at Sam’s anxious face. “What about you?”

Dean is glad he has been impersonating people all his life and learned a thing or two. “Don’t worry. There’s a can of pork stew waiting for me and Sammy. - I know you hate that stuff. – Only, there’s just the one pot. Needed to clean it out first.” The lie flows smoothly over his lips, and Sam appreciates his quick thinking.

Castiel’s face softens, suspicion turning into gratitude. “Thank you, Dean,” he says, and begins to eat his food.

Sam gets up, quietly rummages through his bag and returns, offering Cas two pills a second later, which Cas takes without comment, barely looking up from his bowl.

Dean’s shoulders relax visibly as he turns back to the kitchen area. He washes out the can and starts cleaning up the pot, placing it in the cupboard with the others, hoping that when Castiel realises there is no more food left to refill it, he’ll already have eaten most of his ration. Sam and he can afford not to eat for one night. It’s not a big deal, but for Cas, it is vital that he supplies his body with energy, even more so now that they are on a case again. Almost all of his reserves are burned up with no way of replacing them. He needs to preserve what little there’s left at all cost.

The problem is that Cas doesn’t see it that way. When Dean comes over to collect the empty bowl, Cas can’t help but notice that the stove is turned off and the brothers still haven’t eaten anything. He is quick to comprehend what is going on. “You have tricked me,” he accuses them, starting to get off the bed and in Dean’s face.

“Calm down.” Sam reaches out a hand to stop him. “You need dinner far more than we do.”

Cas huffs out a breath. “You should not have to endure hunger because of me.”

“It’s fine, Cas. We can stock up on burgers tomorrow, alright? Just… forget about it, ‘kay?” Dean’s voice is pleading to let it go, the strain of their prolonged predicament showing through.

Cas looks at him for a long moment, turns to Sam and finds the same sad expression there. He lets out a breath and shakes his head. “But you cannot even be sure if I can keep down the food and then your sacrifice would be wasted.” He speaks quietly, sounding genuinely puzzled.

Dean sighs. “Cas, this is not a sacrifice, okay? Stop going on about it.”

“We’re, fine, I promise,” Sam adds for good measure and that’s the end of it. They don’t talk about it again, but Sam and Dean know that from now on, Cas is going to watch even more carefully what they do with their food instead of concentrating on eating himself.

.~.~.~.

The next day, as the first light creeps across the horizon, they are already on the road, the rising sun at their backs. It’s late afternoon when they arrive at their destination. The weather is rather pleasant, and they enjoy the fresh autumn air as they get out of the car.

The town is tiny, no more than 40 houses clustered together along the main street and a couple of country lanes leading off into nowhere.

Dean lets the Impala roll to a stop opposite the little white church which must be serving as the town centre. The slam of the car doors echoes loudly off the buildings in the silence. They get out and look up and down the street, squinting against the evening sun just touching the horizon. It is deathly quiet.

“What now?” Sam asks.

Dean shrugs. “Now we take a look-around. Find somewhere to sleep. Maybe talk to somebody.” They start down the street, Sam and Dean looking left and right, scanning porches and front lawns as they pass, Cas trailing behind, dragging his feet.

“You know what? I don’t like this,” Dean announces after they have walked past a few houses, most of them sporting two or three lit windows but no inhabitants that they can see. “It’s barely after sunset and everybody’s already out of sight.”

Cas suddenly stops walking. “Sam, Dean.” They turn to face him. “I think I know what the matter is here. Look!” He points at a front door that looks just like all the others, only… Sam squints. “There are markings on the door. Warding symbols, I think… Well-spotted, Cas!”

“Uh, anybody know what they are a warding against?” Dean sounds anxious all of a sudden, which is hardly surprising.

“I am not sure yet,” Cas answers, “but I think it best if we return to the car for the present.” They walk back the way they have come; only this time, there is urgency in their steps. Dean is fingering the Colt stuffed into the back of his jeans, gaze swivelling from side to side.

Cas stops abruptly, causing Sam to almost bump into him. His head is cocked to the side and he is frowning. They follow his stare to another door. “This one is different,” he says slowly.

“It is?” Dean takes a step towards the door so he can see better, but Cas’ hand on his arm stops him from straying further.

“It is an invitation of some kind… announcing… food?” Cas sounds puzzled.

“Guys, whatever. Let’s think about this in the car, okay?” Sam moves on in the direction of the Impala. It is impossible to tell why, but a feeling of unease seems to hang in the air, settling over them like invisible mist, and he just needs to escape it.

While they sit in the car, debating what to do next, darkness falls around them. More lights come on in the buildings so there are obviously people around, but it remains eerily silent. That is, until the screaming start - the first human sound they have heard since they came here.

“Damn!” Dean is out of the car in an instant, Sam following behind. Cas looks indecisive for a moment before he starts jogging after them. It’s only a few houses down the road, but by the time they have reached the marked door, from behind which the screaming seems to originate, the noise has stopped.

Dean points at himself and Sam, motioning for Cas to stay behind as they carefully ascend the steps to the porch and take up positions either side of the door. The brothers’ eyes meet, Dean folding in the fingers of his upheld hand one by one, counting down from three.

They burst into the building, wood splintering, guns out.

There is blood on the floor, obviously freshly spilt, but whoever it belongs to – and whatever has spilt it – is clearly gone. Regardless, Sam and Dean silently search the house while Cas guards the door. It is only a small one-storey building with a tiny cellar and so it doesn’t take long.

They find nothing else out of place. No sign of a fight, no sign of forced entry, no more strange markings of any kind. After about 15 minutes they come to the conclusion that there is nothing more to see here apart from the bloody puzzle that has presented itself to them.

On their way down the front steps Sam’s head suddenly comes up. “Do you notice something weird?”

Dean looks at him. “What’s _not_ weird here, Sam?”

Cas frowns as if he had just noticed something off, too. “There are no people here,” he says.

“State the obvious, Cas,” Dean murmurs.

“That is not what I meant. I am sure that what Sam is referring to is the circumstance that, despite the commotion, no one has come to investigate.”

Dean lets his gaze wander over up and down the street again, this time more slowly. “Huh. You’re right.”

“This seems highly unusual for a town of this size,” Cas continues with Sam nodding along. “Exactly.”

After another sweeping look around, Dean’s eyes settle on the Impala parked a little distance away. “You know what? Let’s get out of here. We can puzzle this out someplace else.”

.~.~.~.

They find a little motel in the next town twelve miles away. It isn’t the most convenient solution, forcing them to drive back and forth, but it is sufficient. Sam is a bit annoyed that the internet connection is so bad, though, which means that searching the web for more clues takes about thrice the time it normally would.

They are unable to come up with a suitable explanation for the events of the evening, which means they will have to do research. Dean is not looking forward to it, but since Sam does most of the work, he figures he’ll survive.

Cas sits quietly in the corner of the room, looking pensive. From time to time, his face twitches like he wants to grimace but is keeping himself in check. Dean watches him from the corner of his eye, pretending to be focused on cleaning his gun while Sam hacks at the keys of his laptop, grunting in impatience when a site takes too long to load.

Some time later, Cas excuses himself to the bathroom, drawing the door shut behind him, and Sam’s fingers on the keys go still. Dean doesn’t have to look up from where he’s fixedly staring at the gun on his knees to know they are both listening for any suspicious sounds that might give an indication of what is going on on the other side of the wall.

Minutes pass.

Suddenly, the bathroom door opens with a click that is loud in the quiet room and makes both Winchesters jump. Sam starts typing again, and Dean raises his head to check Cas over out of habit, trying make it look incidental.

Cas meets his eyes, one challenging eyebrow raised, staring back questioningly. Now, he’s wearing a baggy white T-shirt and boxers, carrying the rest of his clothing draped over his arm, and it’s quite obvious that he just undressed for bed, nothing more.

Dean feels stupid. Everything is perfectly fine. A moment later, Cas crosses the room and sits down on his bed while Dean hastily bows over his weapon again. Nobody says a word.

.~.~.~.

During the course of the next days, they try to talk to the inhabitants of the village. There are people there, after all, though not much is forthcoming - but the three inquisitive strangers soon are the talk of the town themselves. They are eyed with suspicion, even though people seem to try to be helpful all the same.

The roundabout way in which they have to ask their questions, as always, doesn’t do much to speed up their information gathering process, either. Sam has invented some brainless story about how they are investigating the social structure of small American towns, what holds them together, who leads the community and so on. It is a flimsy cover at best for why three young men should be spending so much time in the middle of nowhere, but it works.

However, two days later, they are still none the wiser, and Sam is not the only one who is starting to get edgy and frustrated. There is no local library to scour and when they had asked for access to the parish records, the hostile looks they had received had almost driven them off again. But Sam tells the reverend some tear-jerker story about how they are really looking for their sick-and/or-dead aunt or something – he doesn’t even remember it himself – and that’s why they have chose exactly this town for their study.

They had been granted their request. It is all for nothing, though. People live and die in the village like they do in any other community. True, most of them grow rather old, but that is not a sign of anything supernatural going on. The only strange thing they notice is that there seem to be an unusual number of visitors from other towns nearby. Either they are all related to each other, or there is something else going on. Again, it could be one just as easily as the other.

.~.~.~.

After a few more days, things start to get awkward. What looked like simple ignorance of the townsfolk about anything strange going on turns out to be a strict policy of none-information. They have eaten two meals a day in the same diner, bought their supplies from the same grocer because there is none other around, driven down the same road between the motel and the village dozens of times, and Dean is pretty sure they talked to everybody in and around the town of their interest. Twice. If it were up to him, they would long be out of there again, but Sam has this ‘feeling’ they are on the right track, and Cas seems to be content to go along with him.

The first real sign of things moving along appears that night when they are on their way back to the motel and driving down the now-familiar main street.

Sam suddenly straightens up in the passenger seat, his head turning. “Dean, stop!”

“What is it?” Dean haphazardly parks the Impala on the side of the road, getting dangerously close to a picket fence.

“There’s light on in that house we broke into.”

Cas follows Sam’s gaze. “Indeed there seems to be,” he states needlessly.

Sam continues, excited. “There hasn’t been a light on in there all week. The neighbours told us nobody lived there.”

“Huh. I guess we should take another look, then.”

It becomes clear, when they climb the front steps in the evening twilight, that somebody must indeed be taking care of the house: The lock they destroyed has been replaced.

They knock, then step back and wait. A minute later, a middle-aged woman opens the door and peers through the crack, blinking at them. “Yes?” she says, her eyes straying from the three strangers on her front step to look up and down the street.

Sam jumps straight into character: a friendly, slightly awkward surveyor. “Uhm, hello. We seem to have been unable to catch a hold of you earlier, Ms…?”

“Mrs. Whitby”

“Mrs. Whitby. We are conducting a study, you see. We would like to speak with you for a few moments, if that’s alright.” Sam puts on his most charming smile.

Mrs. Whitby frowns. “A study? What kind of study?”

“A study of the social structure of towns such as this. We have interviewed most of the other residents already.” Sam slips easily into their original cover. “Your neighbour from across the road, Mr. Thomas, told us this house was vacant. How long have you been living here?”

“Well… I… Look. It’s late and I’m tired. Why don’t you come back tomorrow?” She tries to close the door in their faces.

Sam puts out a hand. This is a delicate situation, he knows from experience. The woman had seemed weary to find guests on her front step to begin with. Now, she is starting to look frightened, which is not surprising since Sam cuts an intimidatingly tall figure. “Wait,” he says as gently as he can, putting a pleading note in his voice. “This really won’t take long. You don’t have to let us in.” He gestures for Cas to hand him some decoy survey papers from the satchel he is carrying and digs for a pen in his pocket.

The woman hesitates, her eyes flickering between the tree men and up the road.

“So, how long have you been living here?” Sam starts again, pen poised.

Mrs. Whitby relaxes a little, seeing him stay true to his word and well outside on the porch. “To be honest, I only just got here. I, I don’t really live in this place. Just passing through.”

Sam nods, scribbling. “How come you are staying in this cottage, then?”

“Well, the mayor said it was free for guest use, so…”

“Hm,” Sam says, and writes, ignoring the obvious lie. “Why did you come here? Do you have relatives here?”

She shakes her head, releasing the door and wrapping her arms around her middle instead. The sun is gone and the evening is chilly. Sam looks at her sympathetically. “Are you sure you don’t want to continue this inside?”

Eventually, she nods and finally lets them enter.

Inside, they look around the room covertly. The blood stain on the floor boards, that had been there a few nights ago, has vanished. Only a faint outline shows where it has been bleached out of the wood with obvious care.

“So, if you are not a resident, then why are you here?”

“Ah, to take the waters, as they say.” She blushes and looks away, shifting uncomfortably.

“I wasn’t aware this place was a spa town,” Sam says, raising his eyebrows to encourage a more thorough reply.

“Uhm…” she just says, biting her lip. “You are going to think I’m crazy,” she leans towards Sam conspiratorially.

“Try us.”

“I… I’m sick, you see. And there is supposed to be something here… some aspect to this town or just this house. I don’t know. But it’s said to cure you of anything to spend just one night here. The mayor… he said… well, let’s just say this shack here is pretty expensive.” She gives a nervous laugh. “Normally, I don’t even believe in this kind of stuff, but once you’ve reached a certain point…” It’s clear that she wants to talk, now that somebody will listen to her story. She’s probably really lonely, Cas thinks, wondering if she has anyone at all like he has Sam and Dean.

.~.~.~.

When they leave, it’s almost fully dark. As Dean closes the front door of the cottage, something glistens wetly on the wood. “Now, that wasn’t here before, was it,” he says as they all recognise the strange sign of invitation Cas noticed before. “I wonder what it means…”

They decide to lay in wait.

It doesn’t take long. The last evening light hasn’t quite cleared the sky yet when they hear a woman’s scream, jolting them from their look-outs along the street.

This time, they are not taking any chances: They have agreed to split up with Sam and Dean moving towards the front and back of the house. Cas is charged with watching the main road and nearest side streets in case their quarry escapes despite their efforts.

The sound of splintering wood echoes from the neighbouring buildings as Sam kicks in the front door a short distance away. Cas watches for a moment as the tall form of the younger Winchester disappears into the building, then lets his gaze sweep over his surroundings.

He blinks. The light is failing fast and his eyes need a moment to adjust to the gloom, but when they do, there’s a shadow creeping into an alleyway between two houses. It looks human, but moves in a crouch, so it’s hard to tell.

Cas holds his breath, approaching carefully and looking around the corner into the lane it disappeared into a moment ago. An indistinct spectre is just vanishing into the gloom a little way down the path. Cas waits a bit longer in case it reappears, heart beating fast in his throat, but darkness is falling quickly and he can’t risk staying outside alone any longer, alone with an unknown creature on the loose.

It’s quiet again, and when Cas approaches the house, there is no indication of a scuffle, no sound of a fight. So the brothers apparently didn’t catch what they were looking for either. Cas mounts the porch steps in the light streaming from the open front door. He can already hear Dean swearing.

“Dammit, this thing must be fast! I didn’t even catch a glimpse of it. Did you?”

Sam is shaking his head just as Cas steps through the door.

“I think I have seen it.” The statement has two heads turning towards him.

“Really? So what are we dealing with?” Sam is eager to finally find an answer to that question.

Cas frowns. “I do not know. It was humanoid in shape but it was gone too fast for me to garner much detail.”

Sam’s shoulders slump. “We have nothing, then.”

“Where’s the lady from before, though?” Dean cuts in.

Sam and Cas shake their heads. They haven’t seen her. “Well, she’s obviously not in here.”

The cabin just has two large rooms and no places to hide. They look around. Sam is the first to spot the pool of blood behind the sofa. He swallows. “Seems we were too late again,” then ask the question they are all puzzling over: “Guys, isn’t it strange that this thing pops up just as we roll into town?”

Sam has a point, Cas thinks. Bad luck seems to follow them wherever they go, or rather, monsters and demons. “Maybe what we are witnessing here is an opportunist feeding off the defenceless brought here for healing?” he theorises.

“Well, we haven’t seen anyone healed yet… or any actual bodies… Maybe the townsfolk is feeding outsiders to this thing so it will keep the residents healthy?”

“What do you suggest, then?” Dean sounds annoyed, like he can’t wait to get this discussion over with and move on to more important things.

“We can’t just let some monster run lose here while we’re around. We gotta catch it before it tears anybody else apart,” Sam says empathically.

Dean throws up his hands. “ _And_ find this soul eater thing? How are we gonna manage that without a single lead and people giving us the silent treatment?”

“We’ll figure it out,” Sam says simply and that’s that.

“If these people are in danger, it is our duty to protect them,” Cas agrees, “no matter if it means we will be delaying our actual purpose here.”

.~.~.~.

They don’t get far with their research into the humanoid monster that appears to consume people whole because the next day, yet another guest moves into the marked cottage. This time, it is a young man. Two people are helping him inside. Sam, Dean and Cas watch from the Impala as they roll past.

“There is a lot of foot traffic here… These people coming here, the ‘guests’ – they must know something we don’t. Do you figure we just ask the wrong questions?” Sam muses.

“Whatever, dude. We’ll interview this guy, like the others. Let’s just wait for the helpful neighbours to disappear.”

.~.~.~.

When they knock on the door, the young man opening it looks exhausted and pale. He is clearly ill.

“We are so sorry to bother you,” Sam immediately starts in his most understanding tone, “but we were wondering if you could help us.”

It has been a long week and Dean can’t wait to get out of there when this is over, can’t wait to have this drama end with Cas back whole and healthy. He tries to stamp down on his impatience, leaving it to his brother to push the right buttons on their interviewee.

He appears to be a local, though not from the village, and it takes some persuasion and a liberal application of Sam’s puppy eye, but eventually, they get another piece for their puzzle.

“Well,” the young man divulges reluctantly, clearly still afraid they will think him insane, “there’s this believe here that if you sleep in a house marked in a particular way, a night spirit will come, and if you are unafraid, it will devour you, tearing you apart in order to stick you back together the right way.”

Dean can’t hold himself back any longer. They have heard too many versions of this already. “What does that even mean?”

Their subject’s shrug looks more like a wince. “How would I know? It’s just what I’ve been told…”

They decide to relent. The man looks like he is ready to fall over from exhaustion, and Cas is starting to match his complexion. Time to go.

“Thank you very much for your time,” Sam says politely as they get up to leave.

They don’t go far, though.

“We should keep an eye on this place,” Dean murmurs as they walk down the front steps.

The rest of the day feels like déjà-vu, especially the evening. The screams seem to emanate from the cottage right on schedule, Dean thinks morbidly.

.~.~.~.

They storm the house yet again, just in time to see a vaguely human shape squat on the floor, a pool of blood coating the wood and the creatures’ front. When it whips its head around to stare at the intruders, they see it dripping from its bared teeth like cranberry juice. The thing contemplates their shocked faces for a few suspended seconds, chewing on something that they know is the last bite of human flesh. Then it jumps up and scuttles off like a rodent.

“Hey!” Dean calls and the stunned silence is broken by frantic movement as all three race after it.

“Did you see that?” Sam pants as they are chasing their quarry across the field behind the house. “It ripped that poor boy apart like a paper doll.”

“I didn’t think the ‘devouring’-part was literal. This thing supposed to heal you?!” Dean throws in, frustration evident in his shout.

Further talk is prevented by the ground sloping up and stealing their breath from their lungs as they near the edge of a forest patch. Cas struggles to keep up with them, breath coming in heavy gasps at their side.

.~.~.~.

The chase continues through the undergrowth, but it soon becomes unclear who is hunting whom. They can hear something heavy crashing through the bushes to their left. Dean fires a shot in the direction of the sound.

Suddenly, the creature pounces, exploding from a thick tangle of low branches like a big cat.

They stumble back a few steps, deciding it may be better to retreat and regroup. Cas is close to his limits and they need a bit of time to figure out their strategy. But it’s too late.

The creature grabs Cas by the arm as they turn to run, jerking him back and pressing a palm to his forehead, bending his head back a little and exposing Cas’ throat. Sam and Dean whirl and aim their weapons as one, ready to fire a killing shot as soon as the opportunity presents itself.

“Wait!” Cas lifts an arm in their direction, warding off an attack. His voice sounds strange coming from his overstretched throat. “It’s speaking to me.” There is wonder in his voice and he closes his eyes, scrunching up his face in concentration while he listens to whatever voice is whispering through his head, because Sam and Dean can’t hear a thing.

After a moment, Cas opens his mouth again, relating what he is hearing in a halting voice. “It says that it cannot help me… that… something vital is missing to rebuilt…” His shoulders suddenly sag and the brothers take a hasty step forward, ready to intervene, before they realize Cas is still standing. “It says that it needs a soul to rebuilt the body around it.”

Cas exhales, his face relaxing into the resigned expression that has become default for him. The soul eater slowly withdraws his hand, almost caressing Cas’ cheek in what seems to be a genuinely regretful gesture. It locks searching eyes with Cas.

“I understand,” Cas answers the unspoken question earnestly. There is no bitterness in his words. He holds the connection a moment longer before the creature turns abruptly and bounds away into the shadows.

.~.~.~.

“So what do we do now? Do we just let... this thing…go.” Dean sounds incredulous, but Cas just frowns.

“Consumption of the body is part of its modus operandi. What we have witnessed – blood, and all – it’s just the first step of the process. This creature is not harming anyone, not really. In fact, it is helping those in need. I do not see a reason to terminate it.”

“It wasn’t able to help _you_ ,” Dean points out bitterly.

“I already explained it to you,” Cas sighs. “As I do not have a soul, it would be unable to restore me. However, I am sure there are many others whom it has helped, and it will continue to do so as long as the villagers observe their obligations – and I don’t mean feeding humans to it,” he adds, seeing their faces. “Nobody has been killed here. There is no monster, no arcane dark side to their deal.”

The brothers look skeptical, but Cas is certain of his assessment, so eventually, they decide to follow his recommendation and leave their case at that.

.~.~.~.

The mood in the car on their way back home is subdued.

After they return unsuccessful from their trip, the fight seems to have gone out of Castiel most of all, but Sam and Dean are tired, too.

They are running out of time. Everyone is aware of the hours and days slipping by. The soul eater was their best hope. Now they have to start all over again.

.~.~.~.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I confess that I shamelessly stole from the X-files for this one. Also, I don’t have the first clue about the lore on soul eaters and I'm too lazy to google. On top of that, I’m rubbish at case fic writing. So, sorry if this chapter doesn’t add up. It would be helpful if you could give me some feedback in case you spotted inconsistencies. :)  
> Also, I know I suck at both medical fics and case fics, but this story just happens to have both. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ Hope you enjoyed this chapter anyway.


	5. Back at Bobby's

**Chapter 5 – Back at Bobby’s**

Bobby doesn’t need to ask how their trip went when they step through the door looking like a trio of dunked poodles. Cas heads straight up to his bed, exhausted from the drive and the emotional strain, which leaves Sam and Dean to tell Bobby what exactly happened in the ten days since their departure.

They sit down in the library, Bobby wordlessly handing out glasses of something straw-coloured and smelling faintly of grapes. “From your sad-puppy faces, I gather that things didn’t go so well.”

Dean takes a sip from his glass, not caring what is in it as long as it has plenty of alcohol, before he speaks. “We found the soul eater alright, but it turns out it needs an actual _soul_ to eat. Who knew?” He grits his teeth, biting down on a bitter laugh.

“You gonna share any details with the class?” Bobby prods.

Sam follows up with a short account of the events while Dean broods silently.

.~.~.~.

Research remains as mind-numbingly monotone as it always was, but Sam, Dean and Bobby still force themselves to hit the books, going through the motions for the sake of their sanity. They all feel that their time is running out, but after the debacle with the soul eater, they really have to talk about their options again.

Through it all, Cas sits quietly, observing them with dejected eyes, but never volunteering any ideas apart from informing them about the status of his non-existent grace. His eyes follow their speech around the room, but he doesn’t move, holding himself stiffly. Eventually, Sam looks at him, taking in his posture, and wordlessly hands him a pill. Cas eyes it warily before slowly taking it from him and nodding his thanks.

.~.~.~.

Cas has sworn to himself that he wouldn’t pray for his sickness to be taken away, wouldn’t plead for his salvation. He has told himself that this fate is rightfully his, that he deserves it, that he can accept it and bear it, but now he finds himself praying for release, regardless.

He has never felt like this before, hasn’t ever even imagined feeling like this. The pain radiating from his stomach throughout his entire body is so intense that he just wants it all to end. For the first time in his whole existence, he thinks he begins to understand why people sometimes take their own lives to escape agony like this, as he writhers under the sheets, groaning and biting his knuckles, and trying his best not to scream.

His T-shirt and pants are soaked through with sweat and he can feel his hair plastered to his forehead with moisture like he has just come out of a bath. His face is wet with something more than perspiration. Even in his own head, he is almost incoherent with pain as he pieces together words in his mind to form a clumsy appeal to his Father, begging to be delivered.

Suddenly, there is a cool hand on his brow. For a moment, he thinks his prayer has been heard, and he gulps in a few desperate breaths.

“Cas!” A voice is calling from above but he can’t open his eyes to see whom it belongs to.

“Sammy!” the voice hollers. “Sam, get in here!”

“What…?” Sam stumbles into the room at a running pace, alerted by Dean’s shout. “Is he having another seizure?”

A moan emanates from Cas. Dean looks pale and scared when he lifts his eyes from where he is trying to calm his friend with his hands.

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. It’s just pain.”

“I’ll be right back.” Sam disappears, returning a minute later with a handful of supplies. A vial of clear liquid, antiseptic, a syringe, a tourniquet…

He strides over to where Cas lies panting and twitching in foetal position, muscles tense, eyes screwed shut with tears leaking out from under his lids. He has kicked off the blanket, and it is tangled between his feet at the end of the bed. His fingers are clenching and unclenching, leaving half-moon marks on Dean’s forearms where he has grabbed on to his solid, supportive frame.

“I need you to hold him.” Sam instructs, forcing calm. He unfurls the rubber band he brought and ties it around Cas’ left upper arm.

“What are you doing?” Dean sounds a bit more settled now, not quite as panicky.

“I’m giving him morphine. Just hold his arm still.”

This is not the first time in their lives they have had to use heavy pain medication, though Dean doesn’t want to think about the other times they were in need of it. He ought to be thankful now, he supposes, because they know how to handle the equipment - even though this way of pain management is medically outdated, it will be effective.

Sam deftly cracks the top off the glass vial, unwraps the syringe from its sterile packaging and draws up a dose of the drug. The smell of alcohol fills the air as he swipes the crook of Cas’ arm with a cotton ball.

Cas unconsciously tries to jerk his arm away from the uncomfortably cold sensation, whimpering pitifully.

“Dean,” Sam says in warning, “I need you to hold him steady.” Dean nods, gritting his teeth, leaning more heavily on Cas’ shoulder to press him into the mattress, immobile, and then Sam feels for a vein with two fingers and inserts the needle. The liquid, clear like holy water, vanishes into Castiel’s bloodstream.

Their patient starts to relax almost immediately, gulping in air and using the grip on Dean’s hand to pull himself to the side of the bed.

He throws up. There’s a mouthful of blood, but mostly it’s just bile and acid.

“It’s okay.” Dean rubs a soothing hand between Cas’ shoulder blades, transferring his grip from Cas’ arm to his hand, and his offer of support is met by Cas’ clutching fingers. The retching subsides.

Sam re-enters the room, bringing a bucket and a wet cloth. Dean hadn’t even noticed him leaving. They share a look over Cas’ bowed head. Sam’s eyes glisten suspiciously and Dean gulps down the knot in his throat.

When Cas has settled down a bit, Dean withdraws his hand, almost squeezed numb, from Cas’ and is shocked to find it’s shaking. The tremors travel up his arm, and soon his whole body is trembling with the aftershock of what he just witnessed.

“I think I need a drink.” He hurriedly scrambles up off the floor and strides out of the room.

.~.~.~.

Sam has pushed back Castiel’s sweat-soaked hair and is gently whipping Cas’ face with the cloth he brought, clearing away the trails of vomit and blood on his chin and dabbing at the tear tracks on his cheeks. Earlier, he was too high on adrenalin to notice, but now, he realizes with a clenching of his heart that he has never seen Castiel cry before today. The last time he had seen him look this bad was right before they sent the souls back into Purgatory. The sight before him is an unsettling reminder of that.

Cas has relaxed somewhat and Sam thinks he just might have slipped into blissful unconsciousness, if not sleep, when he puts away the stained flannel. He sits back on his heels from where he is kneeling on the floor and takes a minute to breathe.

“Thank you.” The whisper is so quiet that Sam might have thought he only imagined it if he hadn’t seen Castiel’s lips move. Sam feels his face contort, tears suddenly stinging his eyes.

“Shhh. You are welcome, Cas,” he murmurs back almost as quietly, stroking Cas’ shoulder, “Try to relax, okay?”

Cas gives an almost imperceptible nod.

Sam watches for a few more minutes until he is sure Cas is actually asleep, before he places the bucket in the spot where he just cleaned the vomit off the floorboards and silently unfolds himself to stand and leave the room. He only half closes the door when he goes to find Dean. Hopefully, his brother has not discovered the whiskey bottle he hid just this morning behind the dresser in the living room to prevent him and Bobby from damaging their livers any further.

He hasn’t, Sam soon finds out, because Dean intercepts him at the foot of the stairs. “Where did you put it, Sammy?”

Sam just shakes his head.

“Dammit, Sam! I can’t take this, okay? I…” Dean swallows thickly.

Sam chooses to sidestep the issue of Dean’s alcoholism. It has never done any of them any good to debate it, anyway. “I think he’s asleep now. That was some serious break-though pain. Hopefully, he’ll feel better when he wakes in a few hours.”

He can see Dean wanting to give a biting answer, but his brother keeps himself in check, visibly struggling to be rational and pour calm into his voice. “I was hoping we wouldn’t have to use that stuff, you know. For his sake. That it wouldn’t be this bad.” He runs a hand over his face and it’s only now that Sam notices that his eyes are rimed in red. Dean looks exhausted, like he hasn’t slept in days (which he probably hasn’t, not properly, at least).

Now that the adrenalin has ebbed off, his overtaxed nerves begin to show and Sam imagines he himself doesn’t look much better. He puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “We better go tell Bobby.”

Dean shakes his head. “You go tell him. I’ll go and sit with Cas.” His tone brooks no argument, and Sam lets him ascend the stairs again. He is glad that this didn’t happen the day before yesterday, when they were still on the road with nowhere to run…

.~.~.~.

They let Cas sleep, checking in on him every hour during the night. Even Bobby takes the time to stand in the doorway and watch Cas for a few minutes, making sure he is comfortable. Cas doesn’t wake up, but his breathing is deep and even, and they don’t see any indication for concern.

The next morning, Dean is making coffee while Sam and Bobby share the news paper at the kitchen table.

“Good morning.” Cas appears, awkwardly leaning in the doorway. His face is pale and there are dark circles under his eyes. His hair is mussed. He looks at them from under his lashes, unsure of what to do.

“You okay?” asks Dean the same moment Sam says “Cas! How are you feeling?”

Bobby hooks a foot around the leg of the third kitchen chair and draws it out from under the table. “Sit down, son. You look like hell.”

Cas takes the offer. He winces slightly as he settles himself.

“I am fine, thank you.”

Dean peers at him with an expression that says he doesn’t believe him at all, but stays quiet for the moment.

“So, what exactly happened?” Bobby inquires, folding up his portion of the paper. “The boys only told me you had a serious bout of break-through pain.”

Cas looks down at his hands, clasped together on the table top. “I do not remember it clearly, but that seems to be what has transpired.” He lifts questioning eyes, searching out Sam and Dean.

“We had to give you morphine. You were in pretty rough shape,” Dean informs him. Sam nods, looking serious. “You gave us quite a scare, Cas. If it gets this bad again, you have to tell us. You can have painkillers. You don’t have to suffer.”

Cas doesn’t tell them, but he feels like it was just as much their presence, their support, that soothed his burning nerve endings, as it was the morphine. He thinks Dean wouldn’t approve of such soft sentiments. Instead, he inclines his head. “I will attempt to remember it.”

Bobby slaps his hands on the table. “Good. Now that’s out of the way, how about breakfast? Where’s that coffee, Dean?”

.~.~.~.

That night, after Cas has gone to bed, Bobby calls for an emergency meeting. They have to put their thoughts in order so they can figure out what to do next. The shock from last night still sits deep in their bones and the mood is subdued. Cas, in his state of mind, is obviously not going to be any help to them.

“You’ve been back for almost three days. Any new plans so far?” Bobby’s question is met by a pair of shaking heads. “Well, me neither. This is turning out to be a tough one.”

Sam sighs. “Cas is running out of time. We’ve already talked this through so often it feels like permanent déjà-vu. Things are really looking bleak this time.”

Bobby’s exasperation is evident in his voice when he fixes the brothers with a sharp stare. “You can’t be serious! It’s only been a few weeks.”

“A few weeks of finding nothing and Cas getting worse,” Sam corrects. He sounds tired, hopeless.

“Please, Bobby, drop it,” Dean’s quiet voice suddenly cuts in. He sounds pained, like he can’t bear to think about the issue any longer, let alone talk about it.

“Dean…”

“God, did you even look at him? Can’t you see how sick he is?” Dean’s voice breaks on the last syllables and Bobby chooses his words carefully.

“He’s sick, but he’s not _dead_. Yet. We don’t give up on living people. Hell, mostly we don’t give up on the dead, either, do we now, boy?”

“Bobby…”

“No. You are telling me that you’ll just leave this be? That’s a new one.”

“It’s a medical issue! We have no idea how to fix this. Our expertise lies with other things.”

“So you’ll just let him die? You’re just giving up?”

“No!” Dean huffs like Bobby has just suggested the ask Santa Clause for help. Sam has a similar expression on his face. “Who said anything about giving up? Hell! _He_ may be prepared to throw in the towel. Doesn’t mean we have to fall in with his defeatist talk. But we’ve been here before, Bobby,” Dean bites out. “We’ve been her a _thousand_ times over. It’s not like we don’t already know all the tricks.” His eyes are burning with something dangerous, on the edge of hysteria.

Bobby remembers the look from the time Sam lay dead on a moth-eaten bed in some ruined ghost town. It gives him chills. He raises his hands in a placating gesture. “Let’s look at this again, shall we? Maybe we’ll find something new. Our angle friend won’t help himself, so we’ll just have to keep our heads and work it out for him, alright?”

They look at him wearily, but nod eventually.

.~.~.~.

In a strange, twisted way, Sam is grateful to Cas that he had broken his ‘wall’ that had kept the memories of Hell at bay. Maybe it is some variation of Stockholm syndrome or something, but he can’t help the feeling. The wall wouldn’t have lasted forever, anyway, and what lay beyond it was just as much part of him as the rest of his soul – but his anxiety would have prevented him from reintegrating it into himself again, making it a fearsome and horrible thing he had to run from. Cas has spared him a lot of fretting and worrying – him and Dean, though it had not been his intention to do so - and it had all turned out for the best, in Sam’s opinion.

Cas, however, does not seem to think so. Even though they have had numerous talks about the subject already, he has been unable to forgive himself for what he had done.

“You have to let this go, man,” Sam advises him for the umpteenth time, Cas nodding mutely, eyes far away. Sam sighs. “Look, Cas. You think that you getting sick is your punishment for all you’ve done, right? Maybe _I_ deserve to live with these memories. At this point, nobody here has a completely spotless record anymore! Why can’t we just agree that we are even?”

“Sam, what you have done pales in comparison…”

But the younger Winchester cuts off Cas’ solemn monologue before it can even start. He’s heard it often enough. “ _I_ started the freakin’ Apocalypse, for Christ’s sake! And I killed people, Cas! Innocents!” It still hurts to admit it, but it gets easier every time he says it.

Cas is not soothed by the reminder. He never is. His counter is cold and bleak: “ _So did I_! On a scale you are ignorant of!”

Before the conversation can heat up any further, there is a third voice in the background. “So. Having another of your bitch fights about who’s the most evil overlord?”

Sam looks over at his brother leaning causally in the doorway, arms crossed in front of his chest, watching them with a half-hearted smirk. He looks both bored and angry.

Sam glances back at Cas, who has closed his mouth and has turned his head away, chin lifted up defiantly.

“You know what?” Dean says when nobody seems to be willing to speak. “Maybe we should all go and drown ourselves in the bath tub. To rid the world of our ugly mugs.” He’s only half joking, Sam knows. The way Cas winces slightly and lowers his head at the words makes it evident that he, too, is aware of the elder Winchester’s own feelings of guilt.

Sam can’t help it. He starts to chuckle, pressing a hand to his mouth.

Dean narrows his eyes at him. “What’s so funny?” he snaps, making Cas look up wearily, hunching his shoulders as if he is expecting a blow.

“Us. We are funny. A pathetic little bunch,” Sam explains.

“Oh, you took this long to figure that out?” Dean scoffs and shakes his head. “Man, something’s seriously wrong with us.”

Despite Sam’s successful attempt to lighten the mood, Dean remains pensive. Just now, standing in the doorway watching his brother and his friend, he realized something: he sort of envies the long talks Cas and Sam have nowadays. Mostly, they revolve around trivial matters, but Sam’s persistent guilt over starting the apocalypse is as much a reoccurring theme as Cas’ self-loathing because he hurt the people who took him into their family and almost lost himself in his new role as God.

Dean shies away whenever they try to pull him into their conversations. He has enough on his mind already without having to talk about his _feelings_ , too. Nevertheless, he is glad to see Sam slowly recovering from the trauma he suffered. Without even knowing it, Cas seems to have turned into something like Sam’s personal therapist during the past months, and Sam, in return, is unwittingly teaching the former angel about human emotions and motives. In a strange way, Cas’ fall seems to have benefited the both of them.

.~.~.~.

Dean, Sam and Cas are in the library doing research when Bobby comes in from a phone conversation he just had. “Hey boys! Found you a case! Some ghost who won’t go to sleep and is terrorizing children in a playground, of all things.”

Dean smirks. “Great. Just what we need. Thanks, Bobby,” he says sarcastically.

“Oh, come on! This ought to be easy for you. Might do you all some good to get out once in a while. Take a little break, you know.”

“You’re not gonna come?”

“Nah, you’ll take care of that just fine by yourselves.” That, coming from Bobby, is almost an insult. “Besides, somebody has to keep an eye on the house and on Feathers here, too.”

At that, the former angels’ head snaps up. “I will not be left behind,” he growls, “Dean and Sam might need my help.”

Dean turns weary eyes on him. “Cas, buddy, I think Bobby’s right. It would probably be for the best if you sit this one out. – What do you think, Sam?” Dean turns to his silent brother before Cas can open his mouth for a retort. Sam glances at Cas. “I agree with you, Dean.” Cas gives him a deathly glare. “ _However_ I also think we should let Cas decide. He’s the oldest here. I think he can speak for himself.”

“What? And how are we going to take care of him _and_ the case with as much looking-after as he needs?” That earns Dean glares from all three men around the room.

Cas huffs indignantly, his voice taking on an icy tone. “I’m not an invalid, Dean. My incapacitation does not extend to my mind. I am perfectly capable of deciding what is best for me and I will thank you for refraining from speaking about me as if I were not present.” For a second, the old Cas is back, the one who could smite demons with his heavenly wrath and coldly aim to kill children and innocents for the great cause of the Heavenly Host.

Dean thinks insulting Cas was absolutely worth the trouble just for this one look into the past, at the way his friend had been before it all went to hell. Literally.

“Be that as it may,” Cas continues, “I want to accompany you. It will provide a welcome distraction, I am sure, to pursue a mundane task such as this.” Dean looks like he wants to argue further, but Sam is using his sad puppy-dog eyes on Cas’ behalf and Bobby looks satisfied enough by Cas’ attitude.

“Okay then. But – “ Dean fixes his friend with a stare. “- at the slightest sign of trouble we’re sending you home.”

“That will not be necessary,” Cas assures him dryly.

In the end, the case really is as straightforward as they come. They vanquish the ghost and Cas gets to drop the match for the salt’n’burn. The familiar high of their success even brings a smile to Cas’ face, though it is tinged with nostalgia. How many more times will they be able to help, as a team? How many more lives will he be able to save by his presence?

.~.~.~.

Cas is lying awake. He can hear the faint voices of his friends rumbling through the floor boards, rising and falling in discussion. He doesn’t need a lot of imagination to know what they are talking about, but he doesn’t care. The murmur provides a backdrop for his own thoughts.

He imagines he can feel the cancer cells growing in his body, splitting and proliferating, taking up more and more space and leaving less and less room for him to breathe, to _live_. He thinks he can see the black mass in his mind’s eye, churning and stretching like a sluggish amoeba.

Absent-mindedly, he places a hand on his abdomen. His stomach is flat. Not as muscular as it used to be before he lost so much weight. His fingers glide over the ridges of his ribs to his collar bone, but he can’t feel anything unusual under the skin.

As an angel he used to be able to reach inside people and touch their souls. Now, he wishes he could reach inside himself and tear out this alien his body has created. But he is not an angel anymore, and by now there are too many little aliens distributed across his body to burn them all out.

The worst of it is that he can feel the disease leeching the life-force out of him faster than he can replace it with new strength and optimism. It is like a drain he just can’t plug, a _hole_ in his stomach instead of a tumour.

He doesn’t know when exactly it happened, but somewhere between being released from the hospital and now, the pain in his stomach has progressed from occasional, infrequent bouts and spasms to a more or less constant ache. Mostly, it’s just a dull throb in the background, but, from time to time, it peaks, viciously jabbing at his innards and making him curl in on himself in a desperate urge to escape it.

Sam is mercifully discrete about doling out pills and morphine when required, but Cas feels uncomfortable with this solution. There are two main reasons for that. One is that the injections don’t really make him feel much better; just shift the weight of his suffering away from his pain and to a different focal point. The other is that, deep down, he still can’t quite shake the thought that he deserves every minute of agony he has to bear.

Regardless, Cas is weak, and his friends do not deserve to suffer the distress of witnessing him in pain. So Cas tries to keep his promise about asking for extra painkillers when he needs them.

In time, a third pill had joined Cas’ daily medication. He is infinitely grateful to Sam for having paid such close attention to the doctors so that he knows exactly what to give him and when. He has become quite adept at swallowing the little ovals, too, practicing thrice a day. But he is acutely aware of his decline. The medication might mask the signs a little, but he is fully conscious of the fact that he is dying with no way of stopping it.

Angles, naturally, don’t feel the kind of attachment to their vessels that humans do. Maybe that is what softened the initial blow for Cas, or rather, muted his feelings a little. But the end of an existence is such a foreign concept to angels that it is hard for him to truly comprehend it. Therefore, he mostly tries to ignore it, pushing his fears to the back of his mind. So, the others are afraid _for_ him.

Still, deep down inside, under all the layers of guilt and dejection, Cas is also angry. There remains a spark in him that tries to combat his depression and resignation to his fate, but somehow, he doesn’t feel entitled to his fury. He has no right to complain, he tells himself again and again.

It is like back in the day with Uriel, when Cas’ was still following what he thought were God’s orders. He had felt conflicted then, too, rage simmering almost constantly just under the surface after he had met Dean, frustration with himself and his inability to just _believe_ in the face of what he had learned during the short time he had known his human charge.

Talking with Sam helps. He seems to understand Cas on a fundamental level. To ever have thought him rotten or evil when Sam is such a quintessentially good person is another regret fuelling Cas’ anger. None of them deserve any of this. But who is he to judge?

.~.~.~.

Sam sighs, tiredly rubbing at the corners of his burning eyes, and closes the book he has been reading without getting any results. He stands to put it back on the shelf behind Bobby’s desk and pulls out yet another ancient tome. The leather covers creak ominously as he opens it in his lap, leafing through the brittle pages. The writing blurs before his eyes, words melting into blobs of ink. Yet he is reluctant to give up in his search for some clue they might have missed the first few times.

He squints, forcing the letters into focus, but they don’t make much sense to his tired and frustrated brain. After a few more minutes he has to accept defeat for now. He puts the book down, reluctantly preparing to take a break that they can’t afford, _Cas_ can’t afford.

But Dean has long gone to bed, probably passed out in an alcohol-induced daze of resignation. Cas is probably already half-way through his nights’ sleep. Somewhere down the hall, Sam can hear Bobby shaking his bed with snores. Sam thinks he is too tense to sleep, that the worry will keep him awake. Images of Cas, pale and drawn, linger in his mind’s eye, and a crushing feeling of hopelessness settles onto his shoulders, digging in its vultures’ claws. The book slips from his hands, landing on the carpet with a muffled thud, and sleep claims him, after all, exhaustion finally winning over anxiety. Bobby’s sofa is as good a place to crash as any, and so that’s what Sam does.

It’s still dark when Sam wakes up again, but the sky outside is already beginning to glow faintly. He wonders what woke him as he brushes the hair out of his face and the sleep from his eyes.

There’s a sound in the upstairs bathroom that he has grown all too accustomed to in the past weeks. He gets up from the sofa and carefully makes his way up the dark stairs. A sliver of light is falling through the half-open bathroom door and illuminates the floor boards just a little.

Sam silently pads up to the door, pushing it open to reveal Cas crouched next to the toilet in a sweat-dampened T-shirt and boxers that look like harem pants on his slim hips, just barely clinging to his jutting hip bones. Cas’ shoulders tense for a moment as if he is expecting Dean or Bobby to enter, but relax when he lifts his head to find Sam in the doorway. His eyes, sunken and watery, follow Sam on his path across the room.

Sam squats down next to him, feeling like he might shatter at any moment at the sight, but he swallows back the tears at Cas pleading look. Instead, he goes to prepare a wet washcloth at the sink, returning to Cas’ side and rubbing his back through another bout of retching before offering the damp cloth to him. Cas nods his thanks, trying to catch his breath.

“Maybe we should up the dose of your anti-emetics,” Sam says quietly while Cas dabs at the acid coating is lips. “You can’t go on like this.”

“More medication would probably be appropriate,” Cas agrees. His voice doesn’t sound as hoarse or weak as Sam expected it to be, which calms him a little. With that cleared up and Cas’ bout of vomiting seemingly subsiding, Sam leans back a little so he can sweep his eyes over Cas’ bowed form. “You okay to go back to bed?”

“Yes. Thank you, Sam.” The sincerity in Cas’ tone stings. Sam tries to brush it off. “Anything I can do to help, man.”

He unfolds his bulk off of the floor, turning to make his way to bed, too. They silently agree not to tell Dean about their nightly rendezvous.

.~.~.~.

The decision comes gradually. Like falling asleep, Castiel thinks. It takes a long time to drift towards unconsciousness but in the end, it’s just one moment - one second you’re there and the next you’re not. That is how he would describe the process which led him to the conclusion that he is too tired to fight any more. Or maybe he is waking up, finally opening his eyes to the bleak reality.

He could hear death beckoning to him, its call resounding in his very bones, deep and patient… unavoidable. Sometimes he feels like he can already see the other side from where he stands, even though he knows perfectly well that for him, there is none. He doesn’t indulge himself with imagining one, either. Facing the facts has always been the way he worked.

When he tries explaining it to Dean, things don’t go well.

“You can’t be feeling guilty enough to want to die!” Dean exclaims, exasperation and frustration evident in his voice. It’s as if Dean wilfully refuses to comprehend his meaning.

“Have you never done anything you regretted so much you did not know how else to atone?” Cas inquires, his patience fraying.

“Not enough that I wanted to die!” Dean all but shouts back.

Cas doesn’t believe him, but that is beside the point. “I never said I _wanted_ to die. I am merely accepting my fate as a fitting sentence.”

“How can you be like this? How can you be _so fucking calm_ about all this?” Dean rages, clearly desperate. “How can you just… take this?”

Cas snaps a bit at that. Can’t Dean see that this is hard for him, too? “Do you _want_ me to suffer?” he asks pointedly. “Do you want to _see_ me suffer?”

Dean’s answer is not what he expected. “I don’t know,” he fires back. “Maybe if I saw that you cared about your own life as much as we do, I’d know you’re okay. This way… there could be anything going on inside your head, Cas. I don’t understand you. How can you be so willing to give up on us? How-” He breaks off again, voice cracking. His eyes are pleading, imploring Cas to deny what Dean’s heart is finally beginning to realize.

Cas is trying to project a picture of serenity. Maybe if he acts like he is unafraid, Dean will have an easier time accepting his conclusion. “My existence has been almost infinite compared to yours. Whyever would it not be enough for me?”

“But…” An overwhelming feeling of powerlessness steals the words Dean might have said.

Cas is right, of course. Dean knows that perfectly well. Still, he is having a hard time accepting his choice. It is just not in his nature to accept defeat. Where would they be today if that was the way they played things?

.~.~.~.

Meanwhile, Sam has had enough of listening to Dean argue with Cas. Apart from the squabbling grating at his nerves, he also feels sorry for Cas for having to endure Dean’s pig-headedness when he already has more than enough on his plate.

He pulls Dean aside the next chance he gets. “Dude, you have to stop trying to make Cas see things your way,” he admonishes his brother.

Dean’s reply is immediately aggressive. “Why? The guy’s delusional! He thinks this thing is his rightful punishment.”

Sam sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Dean, look. We don’t know how long he has left. Why would you want to make him suffer for the rest of his days by destroying his illusion? Cas is telling himself that this is his Father’s plan. If he allow himself to question that, where would that leave him? Right now he’s okay. He’s at peace. Why would you rob him of that?”

Dean glares at Sam, but there is desperation in his eyes. “I don’t want to _rob_ him, Sam. I want to wake the fight in him!”

Sam shakes his head. In a way, he understands exactly what Dean means, but they may be past the point of fighting, now. He puts a hand on his brother’s shoulder and squeezes. “Look, I get it. This is hard on all of us, but Cas has found his way to deal. So let him, ok?”

.~.~.~.


	6. Square One

**Chapter 6 – Square One**

Of course, Dean notices that Sam is the one tending to Cas most of the time. The reason he keeps himself in the background, though, is not that he feels unable to help. He has had years of experience when it comes to caring for his sick baby brother. John had rarely given a hand in catering to Sam when he had been ill as a child. That task had always fallen to Dean, and though he hated seeing Sam suffer, fever-shaken and snot-nosed, he didn’t particularly mind cleaning his face and mopping up vomit now and then, telling him stories to keep him comfortable and generally keeping him company.

The problem with Cas is that he would not get better. With Sam, he had always known that, one day, he’d wake up and find his brother’s eyes twinkling back at him with health and life returned to their dull depths.

Now, Dean simply cannot stand the reminder whenever he looks at Cas that all his efforts would amount to nothing more than palliative care. So he tries to find a way to fix things. As does Sam. And as does Bobby. The problem is that Sam and Bobby don’t stop at _trying_ to help. They handle almost all occurrences surrounding Cas, making Dean feel not only helpless, but useless. He wonders if Cas sees it the same way.

So Dean decides he needs to get over his inhibitions to be able to offer support to his friend. And idea pops into his head, something that would allow them to spend some time together and might make Cas feel better about himself, too…

.~.~.~.

The next opportunity he gets, Dean drags Cas out to do some cloths shopping, of all things, claiming that it is time Cas stopped wearing hand-me-downs like he is their little brother (which he probably kind of is anyway, but that’s beside the point).

“Dude, you can’t go on looking like you pick your wardrobe at some charity fare. I can’t stand to look at you in these rags any longer,” Dean had said, all serious, laying a hand on Cas shoulder.

Cas had frowned back. “But they are _your_ cloths.” The puzzlement was clearly evident in his voice.

“Never mind that. Maybe Sam and I need a new wardrobe, too.”

That is how they had ended up here, at the back of a department store with Dean sitting down while Cas is trying out shirts. Currently he is eying himself in the mirror, turning back and forth in what has to be the ugliest Hawaii shirt the world’s ever seen.

“I don’t see the point of this,” Cas gripes.

“The point is that you need something half-way decent to put on. Which rules that shirt right out, by the way.”

“But I will not be in need of clothing within a foreseeable timeframe.”

Instead of letting the atmosphere be dragged down by the reminder, Dean chooses to deflect. “That’s why I’m here. Guess who’s going to wear that stuff then? Can’t let you pick something that’d just be wasted later.” His attempt at a joke is pathetic, but they both have to take what they can get these days.

Cas is grateful for Dean’s demonstratively light mood. It’s easier to be around him when he is not all angry and bitter (or drunk).

Cas steps back into the changing cubicle again, glad that humans are reluctant to show off their bare bodies in public. He knows he is even skinnier than the last time Dean saw him shirtless. No need to burden him further with yet another reminder.

In the end, they leave with two relatively tame shirts and a pair of jeans that are not twice as long as Cas’ legs for once.

At home, Sam and Bobby insist on seeing the new outfits on Cas. Bobby decides that now is a good time to offer Cas some of his more decent cloths, too, making the former angel all flustered and ducking his head for the rest of the day.

The effect of their shopping trip is obvious, though: The general mood, the undercurrent beneath the (mostly) forced smiles and causal remarks, is much lighter, now that Cas doesn’t look like a scarecrow any more attired in clothing at least 5 sizes too big for him and just working to accentuate his bony frame.

.~.~.~.

Cas leans in the kitchen doorway watching Bobby do the dishes. His shoulders rise and fall as he takes a deep breath and pushes off the door frame to join the old hunter.

“May I assist you?”

Bobby looks sideways at the man standing now next to him at the counter. “Sure. Grab a towel and get to work on these.” He points his chin at a stack of dripping, but clean plates.

Cas carefully picks up the first one, diligently drying it with the same amount of care he applies to everything. He gently sets the item down when he’s done and delicately picks up another.

They work through half a stack of plates each and a handful of cutlery before Bobby breaks the silence of clinking china and stainless steel forks. “You know, it’s awful nice of you to help and all, but you really don’t have to do this. Go spend some time in the sun or something. Get Dean if you’re worried a little house work might break and old man’s back.”

Cas frowns. “I am certain that you are aware that that is not the issue.” It’s not that at all. Cas just needs something to do with his hands, and handling slippery porcelain requires just the right amount of focus. “Would you rather I get Dean to help you? Or Sam?”

“No! It’s okay. Don’t … I didn’t mean it like that, Cas. I just thought you’d rather want to do something else.”

Cas looks puzzled. “Why, then, would I have volunteered to help if it was not my wish to do so?”

Bobby sighs, setting down a soapy pan and turning to face Cas. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he repeats.

Cas searches his eyes for a moment, uncertainty lingering in his gaze, before he apparently finds what he has been looking for in Bobby’s face and gives a curt nod. “Thank you, Bobby Singer.” Cas loves this about the old human: the lack of a need to talk everything out. He is grateful for the silence that stretches comfortably between them as they turn back to the sink and continue their work.

.~.~.~.

Cas prepares to go to bed. The evening sun has long since set and the house is quiet and dark. On his way to the kitchen for a glass of water, he shuffles past the study door, where a slumped figure catches his eye.

Dean is drunk. Cas can see it. He can _smell_ it.

“Dean,” he says and watches Dean’s head come up slowly between his shoulders like it weighs a ton. It seems he wasn’t expecting anyone else to come downstairs at this hour. “You should go to bed,” Cas murmurs.

Dean gives a choked laugh, brushes a hand across his chin where tears glitter in his stubbly beard. “You go to bed. You’re the sick one,” he counters, voice defiant.

“You are drunk.” Cas observes, unnecessarily. “You should seek rest to give your body the chance to break down the alcohol.” He takes a step closer to the sofa. More details of Dean’s face shift into focus in the dim light of Bobby’s library. Dean doesn’t bother to come up with an answer to this, so Cas approaches further still. Dean watches him out of weary, red-rimmed eyes, observes Cas settling into a chair opposite him.

“You should really – “ the angel starts.

“No.” Dean interrupts him, voice slightly slurred. “Don’t, Cas. Don’t… waste your time telling me what to do.”

“I am not wasting – “ And suddenly Dean is erupting. “But you are! You’ve wasted all your time on me. On Sammy and me, and look where it’s brought you!”

Cas briefly considers getting up to put a hand on Dean’s shoulder, right over the mark he left there, to calm him down, but he dismisses the thought. “I am aware of my actions and their consequences,” he says instead, hoping his rational calm will infect Dean. It doesn’t.

“But it’s not fair!” Dean presses through locked teeth, voice rough and shaking. His eyes are filling. Just as Castiel is watching, the first tear detaches itself from Dean’s wet lashes and drips onto his cheek. “Why you? Why make you pay like this when you are no more or less guilty than any of us? Why –“ Dean gulps in a breath, then another before he clamps his teeth down onto the oncoming sobs. “It’s not fair!” Dean grits out again, forcing the words past clenched teeth. More tears are welling up in his eyes, falling thick and fast like autumn rain. Tears of anger, of desperation.

There is no sense in arguing with him in this state. “Dean, you are drunk,” Cas repeats gently.

“So what if I am?”

“You need rest.” Castiel is avoiding the real issue, but it would be of no use to discuss it while Dean is in this state.

Dean, however, refuses to be deterred or consoled. “Don’t you get it? I _can’t_ lose you again. I can’t. You and Sammy and Bobby – you three are all I have. You… If you’re gone… Who’s gonna help me look after them, hm?” Trying to guilt Cas into not-dying is a new one. Cas doesn’t know what to say to that, so he stays quiet.

Dean carefully watches his face, his lower lip quivering. Cas observes his friend clench his jaw muscles to suppress it. “It will be okay,” he says eventually. “Bobby and Sam will be there for you. You’ll be fine.”

“But how long will it be before something comes along that snatches them away, too, hm? How long…”

Cas sighs, pity rising inside him, warm and sticky like syrup, pity for the man in front of him who has lost so much, has given up _so much_ and is still required to let go of yet even more. “Dean,” Cas says, and stops there, for what else could he add? They lock eyes for a moment during which whole conversations seem to go on between them.

Dean’s shoulders slump. His head sinks. “I just wish things were different.” His voice is so small, so lost. It strikes something within Cas. “I know,” he say, “So do I. But things are as they are.” A pause ensures. Cas sighs. “Come on. Let’s get you to bed.”

Dean glares at Cas, eyes desperate and pleading, but he doesn’t open his mouth, clearly afraid he’ll start sobbing in earnest if he allows his jaw muscles to loosen. He just sits there, staring.

Cas stands. “Wait here.”

“Sam?” Cas asks tentatively, knocking on the door frame to their room. “Sam, I need your help.”

Sam looks up from the book he’s reading. “Sure, Cas. What is it?”

“It’s… uh… it’s Dean. He…” Cas can’t say it, can’t tell Sam that Dean is sitting downstairs in the library, drunk and seemingly unable to stop crying, refusing to let himself be comforted.

Sam’s brow instantly creases in worry. “What is it?” He repeats.

“I cannot seem to convince him to go to bed.” Cas knows his dry statement would be ridiculous if he were talking to anybody else. Sam just frowns, then comes over to Cas, who turns to lead the way down the hall.

On the stairs he does realize he should probably explain at least a little of what is going on. “I think Dean found the liquor bottle you hid. It seems to have caused painful thoughts to rise to the surface.”

Sam grunts. He knows what that means. But when they enter the library, Dean lifts his head and his face is dry. His eyes look puffy and swollen still, but he is definitely not crying any more, just looking extremely tired. “Think I’ll head to bed,” he says as soon as his eyes come to rest on his brother. He gets up, swaying slightly and makes his way past them, careful not to touch either of them.

Sam catches Cas’ eye. “What was that all about?”

“Uhm…” Cas answers eloquently.

Sam wipes a hand across his face. “You know what? Never mind. Maybe we should have some of that liquor, too, and then head up to bed. You look like you could use the sleep.”

.~.~.~.

The next day, Dean’s mood has darkened even further. Sam and Bobby have both tried for a heart-to-heart to clear the air, but Dean had fled to tinker passive-aggressively with the Impala. Things can’t stay as they are, however. Dean is clearly hurting and angry, and any amount of auto repairs will not be able to fix that.

Eventually, Sam decides to brave the lion’s den and ventures into the workshop. Music is blaring from the stereo, but it is not accompanied by the noise of a working mechanic.

“Dean,” he calls tentatively as he approaches the open hood of the car, where he finds his brother just staring at the engine.

“Leave me alone, Sam!” Dean’s voice is rough. He sounds like he has been crying.

Sam contemplates the back of his bowed head and sights. “We need to talk about this.”

“I said leave it!” The frame of the Impala creeks ominously as Dean leans forward over the engine bay clenching the frame harder.

“You know, Bobby’s right. You really should talk to someone. This is eating you up!”

Dean lets go with a shove to the frame and the car rebounds with a squeak. He turns to face his brother. “Is that what Bobby says?” he growls.

Sam stands his ground, waiting for more words to emerge.

“Talk about what, Sammy? That Cas is dying on us and there isn’t a damn thing we can do to stop it?” His voice cracks. For a moment, it looks like Dean might break, like he might really start to talk, but then he gathers himself. Sam can see him stuffing it all back behind a haphazard façade of anger and frustration. “You know what? Screw this.” Dean carelessly drops the spanner he had been holding and storms off.

Well, so much for talking. Sam sighs. It seems like they all need a break. Maybe it’s time to appreciate what they have, now, in this moment.

It’s been six months since they survived their encounter with Cas-as-God, six months they have spent together as a human family. Despite the taint that is being put on the experience by the illness, there have been happy times, too. Maybe they should try to remember that. Especially Dean seems like he might need the reminder. Sam has a plan. Now, if only he can get his brother and Bobby on board…

.~.~.~.

“You know what, Cas? Let’s go out and celebrate your last days on earth.” Dean tries for an up-beaten tone, but Cas hears the desperate quiver underneath it. Sometimes, he thinks, humans still make no sense to him, like now, when celebration is about the furthest thing from his mind. “I do not think this is an appropriate time for merry-making.”

“You are right, it’s not. But around here, to ‘celebrate’ also means ‘to enjoy life’, you know, revel in it while you can.”

Cas looks hesitant still, but in the end lets himself be dragged out of the house.

They arrive at a bar.

Cas frowns up at the flashing neon sign that is colourfully reflected in the puddles the rain from earlier has left on the pavement. “Not yet another den of equity, is it?” he asks apprehensively.

Dean gives a bark of laughter that actually makes the skin around his eyes crinkle in real mirth, a sight that Cas hasn’t been privy to for a while now. Cas doesn’t know what brought on his amusement but he is glad for it.

“No,” Dean chokes out, “it’s just what it says on the sign.”

When Cas cranes his neck to get a better look through the windshield, Dean sobers up. “Dude, it’s a _bar_ ,” he says in a long-suffering voice. “You know, where they sell beer and liquor.”

“I know what a bar is,” Cas interrupts. Feeling brave, he opens the car door to get out. “Let us go in, then.”

They enter shoulder to shoulder, Dean stopping Cas with a hand on his arm. He scans the room for a moment, eyes searching, then he tucks on Cas’ sleeve and leads him to a table at the far side of the room. Cas’ eyebrows rise half-way into his hair line: Sam and Bobby are waiting for them, a round of beer already on the table and something that looks vaguely like a cake smothered in whipped cream.

Sam flashes Cas a broad grin. When Cas turns to ask Dean what is going on, he finds a very self-satisfied smile on his face, too. “I take it there is a celebration taking place here, after all.” He searches Dean’s face for confirmation. Dean’s smile just widens. “Might I inquire as to what the happy occasion is?”

“Oh come on, Cas! I thought we got rid of that stick up your arse!” Dean slaps Cas on the shoulder hard enough to make his thinly padded bones grind together. “It’s your six-month-anniversary. Six months since you joined our lowly human ranks.”

“Six months you survived in the company of these two doofusses, I might add, and that’s sayin’ somethin’,” Bobby chimes in, jerking his chin at Sam and Dean. They simultaneously glare at their surrogate father for a moment, and Cas can’t help but give a smile of his own, watching them, his friends.

No, his family.

They have managed to do the impossible in making him feel like he belongs, has a place in the world again, and they are right. This does deserve to be celebrated.

“Anyway, we figured since you were hardly going to make it to a year, we’d better have this party now,” Dean proclaims with a good helping of gallows’ humour while Sam smacks Bobby playfully on the shoulder. “Come on, move over, old man!”

They make room for Cas on the bench. Dean takes the stool.

In the end, the evening turns out quite pleasant, Cas has to admit. They are all comfortably warm from the beer – or in Cas’ case, warmed ginger ale for his tender stomach - and the cake may have looked questionable but tasted delicious enough that Cas ate almost half of the enormous slice Sam heaved onto his plate.

Conversation had been easy, for once, steering well clear of any sensitive topic. If it weren’t for the fact that they had to leave before eleven because Cas was tired out too much to keep his eyes open much longer, it could have been anybody’s birthday party.

Later, when they are riding home, there is silence in the car, but it is not uncomfortable. Yet Cas feels the need to break it. “Thank you,” he says into the quiet, to no one in particular and everybody at once.

Bobby is quickest to pick up on his meaning. “No problem, kid,” he says gruffly. And that’s that.

At home, Cas immediately makes his way to bed. Sam, Dean and Bobby retire to the study, doubtlessly for a nightcap, or more than one for Bobby and Dean, but Cas refuses to think about that at all. They went through a lot of trouble to give him a good evening. There is no reason to let it be spoiled at the last minute.

.~.~.~.

Dean barges into the bathroom without thinking. The door was slightly ajar, after all. So, he is not prepared for the sight that greets his eyes: Castiel is there, looking wearily at him from under his dripping wet fringe plastered to his forehead, clearly having just stepped out of the shower.

Dean can’t help it: His eyes slide over the rest of his body, note the protruding collar bones, how every rib is visible under the pale skin, hip bones jutting out of the towel slung around Cas’ slim waist. He takes in the needle marks in the crooks of Cas’ arms and how damn skinny he is, and for a split second, the terrifying through crosses his mind that Cas has turned into the junkie he saw in their future.

But no. The puncture wounds are a result of the few morphine injections Cas endured before he made Sam stop giving them to him, claiming the woozy feeling they brought made his nausea worse and did nothing much to ease the pain. ‘No problem. More for me!’ Dean had said, and right about now, he thinks, he could do with a good hit. This is all too much for him, seeing Cas suffer, turning into a walking skeleton, and even the strongest pain meds available being useless because he can’t tolerate them.

Dean makes a choked sound in the back of his throat and flees.

.~.~.~.

It’s raining, and Cas is sitting by the window, watching the drops slide down the glass. The sky is rolling with clouds. He recalls how it felt to slice through the heavens under these conditions, how his wings would get heavy with moisture, how the smell of wet feathers and ozone would cling to him even after he had dried them in the sun. He sighs, tracing the running water with his eyes, thinking of sunlit meadows and endless days in paradise, now so far beyond his reach he can barely believe they ever happened.

Suddenly, there is a broad hand on his shoulder, the weight of it warm and reassuring, grounding his fleeting thoughts. He doesn’t need to turn to know it’s Sam who is offering up this silent comfort. Cas can see his faint reflection in the window, looking out far into the distance, but also _there_ with him, there _for_ him.

Cas breaths deeply, fighting the tears brimming in his eyes, like he has to do more and more often in recent days, as they stare off into the unseeing distance together. He never had such good friends in all of his existence in heaven, back when he was eternal and untainted.

Among humans, they say, friendship can last forever. It is a mystery how this should be possible for a species so short-lived, and, at the same time, be unattainable for immortals. But the biggest wonder of all is the question of how he, Castiel the fallen angel, has come by it.

Sam lightly squeezes his shoulder as if he can feel his thoughts and wants to reassure him. The warmth of him standing so close, the sound of his steady breathing, lull Cas into a sleepy state. He feels safe. He feels… loved, he realizes, and all of a sudden, just for a moment, things are not so bad any more. A tension he didn’t know he held dissolves within him and he relaxes a little more into Sam’s hold.

Sam looks down on the untidy black hair, trying hard not to show how shocked he is by how bony Cas’ shoulder feels under his palm. The weight loss is pronounced now, as the sickness eats away at Cas with increasing hunger, seemingly tearing huge chunks out of his frame virtually overnight.

Dean is keeping his distance, Sam knows, because he can’t bear to watch how Cas is slowly turning into a skeleton. The shock from the latest encounter with Cas’ bare body in the bathroom a few days earlier is still too raw for his brother. Thankfully, Cas seems blissfully unaware of Dean’s unease, which is good because Dean clearly doesn’t want to hurt him, but seems too at war with his own feelings at the moment to endure his presence for long.

Sam does his best to make up for the lack of company.

.~.~.~.

Meanwhile, Dean has hidden himself away in the bedroom, nursing a bottle of whisky and trying hard not to think about how much time is passing by him while he does his best to stay in a dazed state of half-awareness. A big part of him knows he will regret not making the most of the time Cas has left, regrets that he lets the moments slip away, squandered minutes on their eternal stop watch, but right now, he can’t bring himself to do anything else.

It’s unfair – that they suddenly have so little time left where there had been a whole lifetime before. There is so much Dean had been planning on showing his friend, so many experiences he had wanted to share, places he had wanted to visit. Now, everything is different. There is an overwhelming sense of urgency infusing every waking moment, yet the days drag on frustratingly fruitless where their quest for acquiring _more_ _time_ is concerned.

The restlessness they all feel doesn’t seem to translate to Cas, though, and that frustrates Dean even more. It makes him feel even more helpless.

On top of that, there’s only so much they can do from here, sitting around at Bobby’s. The occasional hunt is a welcome distraction, though secretly Dean bemoans the time lost on hunting for monsters instead of solutions – even though he enjoys these days spent together, distracted for a while from what is haunting them – at least until Cas has to stop during a chase, dizzy, or brings up his dinner unexpectedly…

Dean whips around when he hears a hatefully familiar voice speak up in the silence. “I heard your little angel is having a bit of a medical problem.“ Crowley studies his fingernails. “Maybe there is a way I can help.” He gives Dean a perfectly innocent look that says exactly what kind of help Crowley is envisioning.

Dean grips his bottle tighter, determined not to show weakness. “A deal. Really?” he scoffs.

“Oh please, Winchester! You’re such a simpleton! What makes you think I have any interest in any of your souls? My goals are bigger now.”

“ _I’m_ not interested in dealing with you. We’ve had enough of you to put us off for a lifetime.”

“Well, that’s not saying much in our dear Castiel’s case, now is it?” Crowley’s words are accompanied by a slow, vicious smile.

“Fuck you!” The venom in Dean’s voice would be difficult to ignore, even for a demon, as would be the half-empty whiskey bottle Dean is throwing at him, hard. Crowley catches it out of the air, completely unfazed. “Cheers, mate,” he says and toasts Dean with a cheeky smile before taking a swig, making a face a second later. “You know, I really don’t understand how you can drown yourself in something so vile, especially over something as insignificant as an ex-angel about to experience his very own well-deserved slice of mortality.”

He tosses the bottle back at Dean, who clenches his hands into fists at his sides, deliberately suppressing the reflex to reach out for it. The sound of shattering glass is strangely satisfying. “Leave us alone, you son of a bitch. This is all your fault.”

Crowley feigns hurt. “Oh, but Dean! I gave our dear Cas a choice. I offered to _share_. It’s not my fault he turned out to be such a greedy little slut. Who would have thought he likes to swallow that much?”

Before Dean can release the outraged shout forming in his throat at the comment, a floor board creeks on the landing outside the door, and suddenly, the demon is all business. “Sorry, dear, gotta go. Call if you change your mind. Toodles!” and he is gone, leaving Dean staring at empty air with a murderous glare, a shattered whiskey bottle at his feet, when Sam pushes open the door.

“I thought I heard voices.” His gaze settles on the pool of alcohol on the floor. “Dean…” he beings hesitantly.

“Don’t, Sammy, okay? Just… leave me alone. Please.” His brother doesn’t turn his head to look at him, and that is enough indication for Sam to retreat, quietly closing the door again.

Sam sighs. It’s no use arguing with Dean about his way of dealing with his problems, namely how easily he turns to the bottle for comfort. They have discussed it before and it never led anywhere, and if Sam is honest with himself, he is too tired now to start it all over again. That Dean should be talking to himself, though, is worrying. He knows they can’t afford anybody else losing their mind right now, not when Sam himself is still not quite fully healed.

Later that day, Sam discovers that he needn’t have worried about the second part of his concerns, at least. Dean slips quietly into the living room where he is reading and settles himself on the arm of the couch next to his brother.

“Crowley came to see me this afternoon. Thought he’d have a good laugh about this whole mess.”

Sam’s head whips up from the book he has been studying. “What?!” He is both relieved to learn that Dean is apparently not turning into a crazy soliloquiser, and alarmed at the idea of what his brother could have been discussion with the demon. Before his thoughts slip into overdrive, Dean rolls his eyes. “Relax. I told him to fuck off,” he says with a reassuring kind of finality.

Sam nods in acknowledgement, letting out a strained breath. The fact that they don’t discuss it further, particularly how Crowley even got into the house in the first place, is a clear sign of their priorities. They have bigger problems than a rough demon…

.~.~.~.

Cas is not bitter, greedily clawing at his life force to keep it from slipping away. He has accepted his fate, grateful for the time that has been given to him and for the gift of friendship. Of course he is afraid, but also curious and deep down, he is bone weary and ready to conclude his age-long existence.

Dean can see all that in his eyes and it scares him. Though the elder Winchester has lived through more than most humans would see in several life times, he is still young in comparison to their former angel, and not quite able to let go of life, even if it isn’t his own. So it is hard for him to understand his friend.

Yet, eventually, there comes a day when Dean wakes up in the morning and has to face the realisation that they won’t be able to cure Cas.

It feels like a whole truck load of bricks has been dropped into his stomach overnight, weighing him down and _hurting_. He thinks that’s how the wolf in that fairy tale must have felt after they had sewed stones into his belly.

He lies there for a long while, staring at nothing and simply lacking the will to move, get up off the bed, face a new day of hopelessness, frustration, and the sight of Cas’ decaying body.

Over breakfast, Sam takes one look at his brother and sees the change right away. The pain he has been trying to hide, shoved down deep inside him, is suddenly plainly visible on his face. He has stopped bothering to conceal it, which can only mean one thing: He has accepted the facts.

Weirdly, Sam is grateful for that. Maybe this way, Dean will find the courage to say a proper goodbye to Cas.

.~.~.~.

The Impala is parked by the side of the road, the black metal blending seamlessly into the darkness. Dean and Cas are sitting side by side on the hood of the car, jackets wrapped tightly around them against the night chill and the breeze that already smells faintly of winter.

The rain clouds have moved away for the evening to reveal the stars. Cas has tipped his head back to stare at them. Out here, far away from any major city, they shine clear and bright, almost like they did in the ages before humanity polluted the atmosphere with dust and light.

Dean gets Cas’ attention by clinking their bottles together, his beer bottle against Cas’, who is only allowed water these days. “Shame you’re not supposed to drink any more, what with the pills and all.”

Cas turns his face away from the sky and smiles ruefully at his hands. “It is for my own good that I am not.”

Dean can hear the double meaning behind the words: Cas is afraid he might start to copy Dean’s habit if he were given the chance, like his future self drowned himself in drugs, booze and sex to forget about his hopeless situation. It is a veiled reminder of the jagged edges of pain and despair that hide just below the calm surface.

Dean bumps his shoulder gently against Cas’. “Leaves more for me.” As if to prove the words, Dean takes another swig from his bottle.

They continue to sit in silence for a while, enjoying each others’ company and giving themselves space to breathe for the first time in days.

“How’re you doing, Cas?” Dean asks suddenly, the question tumbling from his lips before he can stop it and marring the quiet.

Cas picks at the label on his bottle. “I am fine. Truly, I am. You and Sam and Bobby have been taking good care of me.”

Dean nods at his hands.

Cas surprises him by taking initiative and bluntly aiming for a change of subject. “I do not wish to talk about this now.”

Dean nods again. They lapse into silence, listening to the rustling of the wind in the leafless branches of the trees on the other side of the road. A faint glow begins at the horizon, growing steadily. The moon rises beyond the hills, pouring silver over the bare landscape. Dean follows the beam to Cas’ face. His friend looks even paler in the faint light, almost translucent, like he is already a ghost.

Cas’ dark eyes are glittering. He pretends not to notice Dean’s stare.

Suddenly, there’s a jagged lump forming in Dean’s throat. There are words on the tip of his tongue. They taste like something that needs saying. He tries to swallow them down but it doesn’t quite work. They cling on inside his throat with claws of iron, making it sting and close up. He gulps another mouthful from his bottle to wash the tightness away, but it’s the kind of obstruction that needs words to erode it.

“I’m going to miss you, man,” he whispers, hoping a little that he won’t be heard saying something so sappy.

Cas does him the favour of showing no reaction and, after a moment, Dean breaths out a sigh, averting his stinging eyes. The lump in his throat is still there, but now it feels more like a polished pebble than a piece of glass. Cas brushes the back of his fingers against Dean’s thigh. It could be accidental, but Dean knows it’s an acknowledgement.

The moon is rising fast now, as the night moves on and becomes steadily colder. Dean and Cas move a little closer together, shoulders brushing with warmth gathering between their bodies. Both their bottles are long empty, but they continue to sit.

“You know, I used to do this with Sammy sometimes,” Dean eventually volunteers. “When dad was away and the motel room simply got too small.”

Cas hums. “I’ve never done this before, but it is quite agreeable.”

Dean allows himself the smallest smile, dipping his head. Then he sights. “I think we should get back now, though. My feet are getting cold.”

Cas nods, sliding off the hood. The metal had been spreading the warms of the engine beneath them for a time, but it has since cooled. “Thank you for sharing this with me, Dean,” he declares solemnly.

.~.~.~.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm super-proud of how, after endless hours of editing and moving things around, I managed to find the core of this chapter. This was such a mess only this morning, but look at it now *sigh*


	7. Rufus' Cabin

**Chapter 7 – Rufus’ Cabin**

The next day, they get word of a possible case virtually on the other side of the country. Getting out of the house again might do them all some good, Bobby argues, and practically kicks the three of them out of the door – a grave miscalculation, as it turns out. It takes them over a week to take care of the problem, by the end of which they are all exhausted, but Cas feels it the most. They decide to set up camp at Rufus’ cabin, halfway towards home, when it become clear he can’t travel on. Sam phones Bobby to tell him about their whereabouts.

“Bobby.” Sam’s voice on the line sounds tired. Bobby can almost see how he is screwing his eyes shut and rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Just wanted to let you know we’re at Rufus’ old cabin. I don’t think we can move Cas right now.”

A cold sense of foreboding sweeps through Bobby at those last words, but the tries to hide it. “So you are going to crash there for a while?”

“Uhuh. Until he can stand a longer drive.” Sam sighs, mere tiredness turned into exhaustion. Something unspoken hovers on the line between them. Bobby ignores it. He nods to himself, wishing he could be with them so he could place a hand on Sam’s shoulder and tell him to get some fucking sleep. But he isn’t there, and so words will have to substitute for a shoulder to lean on. “How is he, anyway?”

Sam drags in a breath, exhales slowly into the receiver. “Not good.” He doesn’t elaborate. There’s no need to. Bobby has seen enough of life to form his own picture of the situation in his head. “And how are you, son?” he asks quietly, as if he fears Sam might feel offended by his concern.

‘What do you think?’ Sam almost snaps before he reigns himself in, turning the sarcasm into a shaky laugh that chills Bobby’s bones. “I’m … better than Dean… I think. Better than Cas, at any rate.”

“That’s not funny, boy!”

“I know, I know… Bobby?” He can hear Sam taking a deep breath, stealing himself for something.

“Yeah, kid?” Bobby prods gently when nothing follows.

Sam thinks for a moment longer, words eluding him. Eventually, he gives up. “… nothing.”

“Get some sleep, Sam.” There. He said it, after all. But Sam just laughs softly, tiredly. At least the edge of hysteria has seeped out his voice again.

“Good night, Bobby.”

“’g’night, kid.”

Sam hangs up.

Bobby stares at the phone for a moment, suddenly aware that he is now an outsider in their family tragedy. He doesn’t harbour any illusions. It’s been almost two months since Cas has been diagnosed. There is no getting better.

.~.~.~.

“Cas, _please_. You have to eat something, man.” Dean sounds desperate, but Cas shakes his head again, refusing the chicken soup Sam has gotten especially for him. He hasn’t eaten anything all day. This is apparently one of these days when even the anti-emetics don’t quell the nausea.

Sam has tears in his eyes as he watches them from where he’s sitting at the table by the window, but he doesn’t say anything, and Cas is grateful for that.

Dean gives up, placing the blow of soup on the nightstand and getting up from the edge of Cas’ bed. He shares a look with his brother. Sighing, he turns away to settle himself on his own bed. Castiel feels like he is facing a tribunal with both brothers staring at him, hurt, frustrated. They are not angry at him, he knows. It’s their helplessness that’s getting to them. They are not used to the feeling.

Eventually, the soup goes cold but nobody moves to take it away. It’s like they are frozen, too tired to move.

“Don’t,” Cas suddenly says, his voice loud in the silence. “Sam, Dean. Just don’t. Don’t…” He finds himself unable to put his thoughts into words, but probably doesn’t need to.

.~.~.~.

It has been raining for what feels like weeks. Or at least it seems that way to the Winchesters. No matter if they are camped out at Bobby’s or driving across the country to some hunt or other: The dreary clouds seem to follow them, clinging to their tail like shadows in the midday light. If there is something like _mood weather,_ this would be it. So it is a welcome change when the sky clears on the second day at Rufus’ cabin with something that looks like decisiveness.

It’s late morning. The sun filters weakly through the grimy windows and falls across the table where Dean and Cas are playing cards, not only to pass the time, but also to keep Cas from staring pensively into space.

Sam has wandered off because he didn’t feel like participating in yet another round of UNO, which is about the only thing they can play, because Cas doesn’t like poker. Dean puts down another card, sighing at the handful he’s still holding. “Man, you are good at this,” he grumbles, eying the two lonely cards left in Cas’ hand.

“It is a mere game of chance, Dean. It has nothing to do with skill.” He picks up a spare from the stack next to his hand.

“Yeah, sure. Then you are the luckiest guy in the world. But you can’t be or you wouldn’t have cancer.” Dean grits his teeth and takes yet another card.

Cas surprises him by laying his hand of cards on the table, face down. “I am sorry if competing with me in this way frustrates you. Perhaps it is better if we leave this game be for now. I am not feeling well, anyway.”

Dean looks like he might argue at the patronising tone, but he shuts his mouth after glancing at Cas’ face, which is suddenly pale and sweaty. He frowns. “You okay, man?”

“I’m not feeling well,” Cas repeats. His arms are shaking a little when he pushes himself up from the table. The sudden shift in the atmosphere of the afternoon is alarming.

Dean is by his side in an instant. “Easy there. I think you better go lie down for a while.”

Cas nods mutely.

Dean guides him to his bed, worry blossoming in his stomach. He thinks he might call Sam on his cell and tell him to get back to the cabin as soon as possible.

“Are you in any pain?”

Cas gives a tiny nod, looking like the admission is dragged from him against his will.

“I’ll go get your meds. Do you need anything else?”

“No, just…” Cas takes a fortifying breath. “Please stay in the vicinity in case I require you assistance.” They both know he is really asking not to be left alone, and that scares the older Winchester more than anything because Cas, despite being miserable, has never requested this of them before, always putting up a stoic front of nonchalance.

A cold feeling of foreboding begins to churn in Dean’s gut like a slippery worm, and he hurries to call Sam and get back to Cas’ side with the pain medication. He doesn’t hold Cas’ hand for more than half a minute because he is scared of the significance of the gesture, but he does brush back the sweat-dampened hair from Cas’ clammy forehead, just this once while no one is watching.

Cas shivers at the soft brush of fingertips but his eyes remain closed and Dean has no way of pin-pointing the emotions behind the reaction.

What is probably no more than ten minutes before Sam joins them, feels like an eternity to Dean. He hates being helpless. Sam deals a lot better with their sick angel than he, and so he’s grateful for being relieved of his vigil.

Sam’s cheeks are flushed and he’s panting a little. He clearly ran back from wherever he was. Dean can see him trying to calm his breathing before he steps fully into the room, clumps of dirt falling from his shoes.

“How is he?” Sam asks quietly.

“I dunno. In pain, I guess. Said he wasn’t feeling well shortly after you left.” As if to underline Dean’s words, Cas groans quietly.

“Did you give him something?”

“Just the pills.”

Sam nods. He still thinks Cas should allow them to treat him with morphine as standard.

Dean runs a hand through his hair and swallows once, hard. “What if this is it, Sammy? What if…?” Only when he says it does he realizes that he actually believes it.

Sam tries to soothe his nerves. “Come on, man, don’t be daft. He’ll be fine.”

All of a sudden it is too much to take; Sam’s attempt to console and reassure him, Cas dying a slow death, them holed up in a run-down cabin in the woods,… “But he won’t be. Sam, he won’t be fine and you know it.” His voice cracks, breaking into sharp shards that sting his throat and make it hard to breathe.

Sam puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder and squeezes. There are tears in his voice. “Dean. It’s been two months. If it’s time, we’ll have to let him go.”

Cas makes them jump when he suddenly speaks. “I can still hear you, you realize.” Talking seems to be a huge effort for him, but at least the unexpected sign of life brings a strained smile to Dean’s face. “Shh,” Dean instantly sooths. “It’s okay.”

“Why…” Cas drags in a wheezing breath, “do you think I would believe that any more than you do?” He coughs out what could be a laugh.

“You’re right. Just… just go to sleep. We’ll be here.”

Cas obeys.

.~.~.~.

Sam and Dean silently establish a rhythm, taking it in turns to sit with Cas, holding his hand, recalling stories of their glory days together, even when he is too out of it to listen to them. Sometimes he joins in the conversation, at other times he just smiles at the recollections. He never tells them to be quiet so he can rest.

.~.~.~.

“Sam?” Sam looks up from the book in his lap, finding Cas awake and watching him through bleary eyes. “What is it like to die?”

Cas’s question catches him by surprise. Sam takes a deep breath, trying to gather his thoughts. “You _know_. You did already. Twice.”

“I was an angel then,” Cas points out.

Sam cocks his head to the side, thinking. “I’m not sure if the experience is any different for a human. Usually, dying is a messy affair. Being dead is not so bad, though, provided you don’t land your ass in Hell… but I guess that’s not an option for you, anyway.”

Cas nods weakly in affirmation. He doesn’t have a soul that could live on after his body has perished, so he needn’t worry about the afterlife. “So?” he adds when it doesn’t seem like Sam is going to elaborate.

Sam sighs. “What do you want me to say, Cas? It hurts, most times, but it’s over quickly if you’re lucky –“ He bites his tongue, noticing that he is being tactless and realizing what he is actually saying. He feels his stomach drop down to somewhere in the vicinity of his ankle. “I’m sorry. That was insensitive.”

“No, don’t be. I asked you. Thank you for being honest with me.” The seriousness in Castiel’s voice makes Sam cringe, urging him to rectify his mistake. “Look, I’m sure it won’t be so bad for you. I mean, you are not going to get torn apart by hellhounds or shot or run over by a truck or something.” But all that the words do is conjure up images of Cas dying in a dozen different ways and the bit of his stomach that has settled in by his feet clenches painfully.

“I suppose I am going to find out soon anyway,” Cas muses. He doesn’t seem upset by the thought. Not anymore.

.~.~.~.

By early evening, Cas is more unconscious than asleep, laying deathly still most of the time, but tossing and turning in little bouts of restlessness ever so often. His breathing is shallow and uneven, making worried frown lines appear on Sam’s brow. They keep their promise not to leave him alone as evening progresses into night.

He drifts into wakefulness a few times but is barely able to sip a few mouthfuls of the water that they offer him before he fades out again. Though no one says so, they can both feel anxiety spreading though the cabin like a black ink stain on a table cloth. Cas has been through some less than brilliant stretches before, but something feels different tonight as his condition gradually worsens instead of turning around for the better.

Around midnight, Sam steps up behind Dean to offer him a cup of coffee which he’s been brewing for want of something to do. He lets his eyes travel over Cas’ thin form, stretched out under the blankets, and is alarmed to see that Cas’ face has gone from white to a sickly sour-milk kind of grey. He gulps.

“Dean, how long has he been lying like this?”

Dean glances up at his brother. “Dunno. Couple of minutes?”

“We should turn him on his side.”

Dean doesn’t argue, just stands to help Sam draw back the covers and roll Cas onto his side. A trickle of blood leaks from between Cas’s lips, dripping slowly onto the pillow beside his half-open mouth.

“Shit!” Dean hisses in shock.

Sam’s voice is shaking. “He’s bleeding into his stomach again. That’s why he’s so grey.” He pushes a hand through his hair. “Hopefully, he didn’t inhale blood again.”

As if to prove Sam wrong, Cas beings to cough violently, speckling the pillow case with tiny red dots as he convulses. He drags in a rattling breath and blinks his eyes open. At least his colour has improved a little through the abrupt movement.

His eyes are feverish, glittering like wet glass in his pale face. “Hurts,” Cas whispers, voice weak and breathless, skin almost as white as the sheet covering him. He drags in another wheezing breath. “I’m scared.”

Sam’s face twists with compassion. “It will be alright,” he tries to soothe. He knows the words are empty, meaningless, but he doesn’t know what else to say.

Dean nods. “Yeah, dude. You just rest for a bit more. Things will look better in the morning.”

The ghost of a rueful smile steals across Cas’s lips. “You are a bad liar, Dean.”

“Stop saying that,” Dean pleads, squeezing his eyes shut.

.~.~.~.

The next day, Castiel’s condition is fragile, balancing on the edge of deteriorating from bad to worse. Sometime during the following night that is exactly what happens. They can no longer tell whether he is asleep or unconscious when his eyes are closed – which happens for ever longer periods of time. Words are not needed between them to agree that this is the final stage.

.~.~.~.

Castiel dreams.

The sky above him is grey. Ash is drifting down around him like snow in the utter quiet. He looks around, recognising his surroundings as a place he has been to before: The place his sister fell. Her dark wings are still painted across the blacktop, burned into the earth like an after-image.

His legs move without his input. In an instant he is standing by the enormous shape, looking down onto the traces left by another life burning out.

He sinks to his knees, turns, lays down on the ground trying on her wings for himself. Ash is settling on his face. He can feel it like soft kisses on his lips, the skin of his cheeks, his lashes when he closes his eyes and just drifts…

The ground is neither warm nor cold, neither soft nor hard. He feels like he is floating in the silence. It’s peaceful. He doesn’t want to leave but he knows that he has to, for one last time.

Cas’ eye lids feel lead-heavy as he blinks the ash away and lets them flutter open. The world is blurry. Maybe there is still dust in his eyes? He is almost sure he can taste the residue in the back of his throat. It certainly feels like he has swallowed a mouthful.

He sucks at his tongue for a moment, seeking moisture.

“Cas?” There’s a familiar voice nearby. Things slowly swim into focus. Dean’s face appears above him. He is infinitely grateful for the glass of water being held to his lips. He slowly becomes aware his head is being supported so he can drink, cradled gently in Dean’s hand. The remnants of his dream are washed away, but one feeling remains: It’s time.

.~.~.~.

There comes an hour when Cas’ eyes slide open and he is lucid beneath the pain.

“It’s time,” he says.

Dean is at his side in an instant. “Now?” His voice is shaking.

“Soon.” Castiel whispers and slips right back into unconsciousness.

A little while later, Cas wakes again, and Dean is struck once more by how much he has changed over the course of the past weeks: His voice, once the powerful instrument of a heavenly messenger, is reedy and low. His eyes are dull in a haggard and drawn face, only an echo of the former spark still flickering there. The skin has turned waxy and grey, stretching tight across the hollows of Cas’ cheeks.

“Come here, Dean.” Cas smiles weakly as his friend leans over him, helplessness and despair written all over his features. He extends a bony hand towards Dean’s face. It is visibly shaking with the effort of reaching upwards, so Dean kneels and bows his head down to make it easier. He wants to avert his face to hide his tears, but Cas catches and holds his gaze.

A moment later, Castiel’s hand settles on Dean’s hair, both too light and too heavy. Dean closes his eyes, imagining he can feel a faint warmth travel from the point of contact down to his heart, from where it spreads through his whole body before settling deep into his bones. He knows the gesture is a blessing, a benediction, Castiel’s last gift to him.

The thought makes him draw a quivering breath that he can barely keep from turning into a sob. As the touch lingers, a silence stretches between them that nobody is willing to break. They had weeks to talk, to play it down with jokes. They still had time. Now there is nothing left to say.

Dean can’t believe it has come to this, that despite everything they have been through, everything they’ve achieved, something as simple and meaningless as cancer should kill Jimmy Novak’s body and the former angel inhabiting it. It is unfair that even though Dean can still feel a remnant of his former power in his touch, Castiel is unable to defend himself against this invisible enemy.

The sound of their breathing fills the quiet, Cas’ heavy and strained, Dean’s hitching on every inhale. He can feel a tear starting its way down his cheek.

Then, Sam’s huge frame looms in the doorway. He is crying openly, as he watches the scene before him: his brother kneeling by the bed, head bowed, receiving a final blessing from their angel; one last farewell.

Castiel turns soft, affectionate eyes on Sam, the hand sliding out of Dean’s hair. Dean catches it and gently places it back on the mattress before wiping the back of his sleeve across his eyes. Sniffing, he gets to his feet with a set face, making room for Sam, who comes over to kneel in the spot beside the bed.

“Cas.” There is so much Sam wants to say, but the words break and melt on the way to his mouth, turning into harsh breaths and thick swallows. This is goodbye.

Castiel smiles at him, understanding. Of course he understands. He already knows what Sam wants to say. It’s there in his eyes and Sam wants nothing more than to lay his head on Cas’ chest and cry. Cas cannot afford the added weight on his rib cage, though, so he stays where he is.

Cas’ lips form soundless words and Sam leans down to hear them. “You are a good person, Sam,” Cas breaths and Sam’s heart breaks at the reassurance. Then a light hand is on his head, too, blessing him, the warmth trying to sooth his pain a little.

This is so hard. It shouldn’t be. They have had their share of second chances and no reason to complain, but it is so easy to get used to death not being permanent that you take the state of affairs for granted after a while. This is final, though, and it hurts more than anything they have experienced since John Winchester died.

Castiel’s breath grows shallow, more laboured. His gaze loses focus. He is slipping away from them before their very eyes.

Sam picks the hand out of his hair and squeezes it, trying to give Cas a little bit of his own strength for this last step. The hand feels small and clammy in his large palm, bones like those of a bird wrapped in tissue-thin skin. Sam strokes a soothing thumb over its back. Time seems to slow along with Castiel’s heartbeat...

…and just like that, with one final exhale as soft as angel wings, the light in him flickers out of existence…

His eyes are still half open. Dean, always the practical one, leans over Sam’s shaking shoulder and closes them with a gentle hand. His fingertips linger on Castiel’s cheek, unable to comprehend that this body is now dead, the skin already cooling, lips blue.

Yet Castiel went without a struggle and he looks at peace now. Dean is glad for that.

He wraps a firm arm around Sam. His little brothers’ head tipping sideways to rest on his shoulder, tears staining the front of Dean’s shirt as they both weep in silence for a while.

Sam continues holding Cas’ limp hand for just a little bit longer.

.~.~.~.

Eventually, they have to move. Kneeling at the bedside of their dead friend has caused Dean’s leg to cramp. He tiredly rubs at the muscle, then gives Sam, who is still sniffling and wiping his eyes, a hand up. A long, shuddering sigh leaves his lungs. Time to build a pyre. Dean doesn’t want to remember how often they have done this already.

When they are finished chopping and stacking wood, they return to the cabin. Cas’s pale, almost luminous face looks serene as he lies there, mop of dark, sweaty hair still sticking to his cool forehead. Dean looks down at him for a moment as they prepare to wrap him in his sheet, then brushes his hand through the soft strands, arranging them into the windswept look that used to be so uniquely Cas. Another tear slides down his cheek while Sam silently stands by, hands clasped patiently.

With slow, deliberate movements Dean arranges Cas’ thin arms to cross on his chest, squeezing both of the lifeless hands in one of his when he is done. They pull the sheet up from where it is wedged under the mattress and carefully fold it over, tucking in the loose corners. Just before they cover the motionless face, Dean stops Sam with a firm touch. He leans in, pressing a tender, close-lipped kiss to Castiel’s cold forehead. A choked sob escapes Sam’s lips, but he doesn’t comment.

After they are done with the shroud, Dean insists on carrying Cas outside by himself. He has missed so many opportunities to help these last weeks, but at least he can do this, he tells himself. Cas’ body is not heavy. The illness as gnawed away at him until barely more than skin and bone had been left. Also, it had seemed so much larger while an angel had been inhabiting it. Now, it is just an empty vessel, light and fragile.

He cradles the sheet-covered figure to his chest, one arm supporting its legs, the other holding the shoulders. Cas’ head is resting against Dean’s clavicle, rolling a little with every step. Getting the body up onto the pyre is a bit of an effort and he can’t deny Sam’s help with laying out their friend in his final position.

Dean remains quiet when they salt and burn the body. Like a heathen, he thinks, but he doesn’t have the strength for a snarky comment about how Cas was the most holy of them all.

Sam is silent beside him as they set fire to the stacked wood. They add a little more salt to the funeral pyre with their tears.

When it’s done, they phone Bobby to apprise him of the events. He gives them his condolences in a rough voice loaded with sincere regret. They know he will be drinking more than one glass of whiskey tonight.

.~.~.~.

The next morning, after the ashes had a night to cool off, they fill them into a square wooden box. Dean finds a molar just like the one Chuck had pulled from his hair in what seems like another lifetime now. It’s like a cosmic running gag, Dean thinks, only, it’s not funny.

They bury the box under a tall birch next to Rufus’s cabin. Neither of them speaks. Their grief is beyond words.

Dean takes out his pocket knife and carves a cross into the white bark. He cleans out the cuts with his thumb, slowly trailing his fingers down and across in what is almost a caress.

Sam dares to finally break the silence. “Should we say a prayer?” he suggests tentatively.

Dean barks out a sharp, desperate laugh. “Who would listen?”

“Maybe he-”

“No, Sam.” Dean stands and shakes his head. “He’s gone.” There is finality in his voice, the knowledge that everything Cas once was is now wiped out as if it never had existed at all. He turns his back on the grave and walks slowly towards the hut. Half-way across the clearing, he stumbles, wiping a hand over his face.

Sam turns back to the freshly turned earth at his feet and whispers a short prayer anyway - the informal kind they have come to use for getting in contact with Cas in the past few years – then follows Dean inside.

The liquor bottle is already on the table, two tumblers filled. Dean gestures at Sam’s glass, then raises his own. “To the nerdiest, dumbest, most childish angel we ever knew,” he says. “To Cas,” Sam agrees quietly. They sip for a moment in silence.

“What now?” Sam sounds tired. Dean just shakes his head again, at a loss. Instead of answering he refills their glasses. Sam doesn’t complain. The remainder of the day passes in a haze of numbness and alcohol.

.~.~.~.

They almost regret their drinking session in Castiel’s honour when they wake with what seems to be the mother of all hangovers. “Christ! What kind or trash did Rufus keep in his liquor cabinet?” Dean complains. Sam just groans.

They pack up their things and stow them in the Impala. Driving off with an empty back seat, leaving Cas behind in the cold ground, is one of the hardest things they have ever done.

.~.~.~.

Their grief is like cooled ash, filling the inside of the car and settling in slow, white flakes onto their heads, shoulders and thighs as they sit there. Dean is gripping the steering wheel way too hard, almost shaking from the strain as he tries to keep his sorrow at bay.

Sam is quiet beside him, a tear trickling down his cheeks from time to time, but he ignores it. They don’t talk. Each can still feel the warmth of Cas’ blessing, only a small comfort, but they know that this way, their friend will remain with them, always. They know that this warmth will not fade like the sadness eventually will.

It will take time, though; time to get used to the Castiel-shaped hole in their family, in their hearts. But they will carry on, even if it hurts. They always do, because the pain is part of being human.

The end

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!  
> That scene with Cas blessing Dean is actually where this whole story started. I just couldn't get the idea of Cas doing that on his death bed out of my head. The rest was all just to get him to this position.  
> Ok, so that's it. If you made is this far, I'd appreciate your opinion down in the comments section.  
> Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback and comments of any kind much appreciated :)


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